PEGGY-ELISE 


Frederic  Arnold  Rummer 

and 

Mary  Christian 


PEGGY-ELISE 


For  a  sickening  moment  Peggy  wondered  if  she  would  be 
able  to  do  the  aria. 


PEGGY-ELISE 


BY 
FREDERIC  ARNOLD  KUMMER 

AND 

MARY  CHRISTIAN 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
THE  CENTCBY  Co. 


Published,  September,  1919 


PEGGY-ELISE 


213SSQ2 


PEGGY-ELISE 


CHAPTER  I 

D!"  said  Venable  to  himself,  as  he 
watched  the  pitiful  stream  of  refugees  — 
old  men,  women,  children  —  struggling  through 
the  mud  of  the  road. 

The  day  was  raw  and  sunless.  A  thick  mist 
hung  along  the  roadsides,  causing  the  bordering 
poplars  to  appear  vaguely  tall  and  remote.  The 
rolling  hills  to  the  right  resembled  fog-capped 
mountains  in  the  growing  darkness  of  the  after- 
noon. 

Venable,  in  his  mud-splashed  motor  car,  moved 
ahead  slowly,  hugging  the  edge  of  the  road  in 
order  to  avoid  the  many  vehicles  traveling  in  the 
opposite  direction.  They  appeared  with  ghost- 
like suddenness  from  the  crowding  gloom  ahead 
—  motors  of  every  sort,  innumerable  supply  lor- 
ries, ambulance  cars,  busses  containing  officers 
and  men,  battery  after  battery  of  seventy-fives, 
and  now  and  then  a  train  of  heavy  siege  artillery. 
All  these  grim  evidences  of  the  conflict  raging  so 


4  PEGGY-ELISE 

short  a  distance  ahead  moved  swiftly,  silently 
northward,  toward  that  fiery  fringe  of  devasta- 
tion called  the  front. 

Gilbert  Venable,  with  his  face  set  toward 
Paris,  gave  but  small  attention  to  the  endless 
procession  that  passed  him  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road.  He  had  left  the  battle  lines  but  a  few 
hours  before ;  what  he  had  seen  during  this  brief 
stay  there  had  so  dulled  sensation,  crushed  curi- 
osity, that  the  drab  paraphernalia  of  war  left  him 
indifferent.  Only  the  never-ending  roar  of  the 
distant  guns,  rising  at  times  to  a  tremendous  cre- 
scendo, at  times  falling  to  a  dull,  monotonous 
rumble,  stirred  in  his  brain  the  crimson  memories 
of  the  past  few  days. 

The  road  wound  down  toward  a  slender 
stream,  spanned  by  a  concrete  bridge.  At  its 
near  side  Venable  was  obliged  to  come  to  a  halt. 
A  battalion  of  infantry  was  swinging  toward 
him,  flowing  over  the  narrow  span  in  a  blue-gray, 
steel-capped  flood,  filling  the  roadway  from  par- 
apet to  parapet. 

He  halted  his  machine  at  the  side  of  the  road 
and  waited  impatiently  for  the  bridge  to  become 
clear.  He  wanted  to  get  back  to  Paris,  to  put 
between  him  and  the  horrors  of  the  past  week  the 
dulling  barrier  of  distance. 

As  his  eyes  swept  from  the  snakelike  column 
of  troops  to  the  edge  of  the  road  nearest  him,  he 


PEGGY-ELISE  5 

became  suddenly  aware  of  an  object  which  had 
up  to  now  escaped  his  attention. 

It  was  a  small,  almost  pitiful,  figure  in  black, 
sitting  huddled  upon  one  of  the  numberless  piles 
of  crushed  stone  that  bordered  the  edge  of  the 
road,  evidences  of  the  ceaseless  care  with  which 
its  sorely  tried  surface  was  maintained. 

The  figure  that  momentarily  held  his  atten- 
tion was  that  of  a  girl  —  a  young  girl  apparently, 
to  judge  from  her  slender  outlines.  Her  face, 
Venable  could  not  see,  for  it  rested  in  the  hollow 
of  her  right  arm,  upon  her  knees. 

During  his  journey  to  and  from  the  front  Ven- 
able had  seen  many  such  sights.  Old  men, 
women  both  old  and  young,  children,  had  often 
jarred  his  consciousness,  hopeless  refugees  from 
the  crumbling  villages  to  the  north,  wandering 
aimlessly,  helplessly,  away  from  the  bits  of  earth, 
of  brick  and  stone  and  mortar  that  had  until  now 
been  their  homes.  There  had  been  about  them 
all,  however,  in  spite  of  their  apparent  helpless- 
ness, a  certain  spirit  of  defiance,  of  grim  courage, 
of  belief  in  victory  —  ultimate  victory  —  that 
were  of  the  spirit. 

This  girl,  crouched  upon  the  pile  of  crushed 
stone,  seemed  herself  crushed,  although  whether 
by  grief  alone  or  mere  physical  fatigue  or  both 
was  not  clear. 

She  was  quite  close  to  Venable.     He  looked 


6  PEGGY-ELISE 

down  at  her  worn  and  muddy  boots,  her  be- 
draggled skirt,  her  pale  cheek  and  neck,  and  won- 
dered whether  she  had  fallen  asleep,  there  in  the 
rain,  she  seemed  so  immovable. 

The  flood  of  troops  had  passed  by  now,  and  the 
road  was  once  more  clear.  Venable  was  about 
to  proceed  on  his  way,  when  he  saw  the  girl  stag- 
ger to  her  feet,  and,  without  glancing  toward 
him,  step  in  front  of  the  car  and  start  across 
the  bridge.  She  moved  unsteadily.  Venable 
watched  her  anxiously,  fearing  to  start  his  ma- 
chine until  she  had  safely  crossed.  Then,  to  his 
dismay,  he  saw  her  stumble  slightly  and,  half 
falling,  clutch  the  wide  concrete  parapet. 

Venable  sprang  from  his  car  at  once,  and  ap- 
proached the  girl,  cap  in  hand. 

"  May  I  be  of  assistance  to  you,  mademoi- 
selle? "  he  asked  in  French. 

The  girl  turned  her  face  toward  him ;  Venable 
was  surprised  to  see  that  she  was,  in  spite  of 
her  pallor,  her  appearance  of  suffering,  remark- 
ably good  looking.  Her  eyes,  deeply  gray,  ren- 
dered preternaturally  large  by  the  shadows  that 
fatigue  had  set  beneath  them,  met  his  own  fear- 
lessly, with  a  pathetic  surprise,  resembling  that 
of  a  child. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me,  monsieur," 
she  asked,  in  a  voice  at  once  musical  and  sad, 
"  how  far  it  is  to  Paris?  " 


PEGGY-ELISE  7 

"  Paris?  "  Venable  could  scarcely  believe  that 
he  had  heard  aright.  Paris,  and  she  seemed  un- 
able to  walk  a  dozen  yards !  "  Why,  mademoi- 
selle., it  is  nearly  a  hundred  miles." 

The  girl's  fingers  tightened  on  the  parapet. 
What  she  had  heard  seemed  to  have  sensibly  in- 
creased her  weakness.  "  A  hundred  miles !  " 
she  gasped.  "  Won  Dien! "  Then  looking  at 
Venable  again,  she  tried  to  smile.  The  effort,  in 
its  pathos,  struck  at  his  heart.  "  I  thank  you, 
monsieur,''  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

It  was  perfectly  clear  to  Venable  that  the  in- 
terview was  at  an  end.  The  girl's  bravely  spoken 
words  of  thanks,  her  turn  from  him,  told  him 
that.  And  yet  he  lingered,  watching  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  Paris,  mademoiselle?"  he 
asked,  gently. 

"  But  yes."  The  girl  once  more  faced  him,  this 
time  with  a  faint  touch  of  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"  On  foot?  "  he  persisted. 

"  How  else?  "  Her  glance  at  her  worn  and 
muddy  shoes  was  quite  involuntary.  She  spoke 
with  an  air  of  finality  in  which  there  was  not 
the  slightest  suggestion  of  appeal. 

Venable  turned,  indicating  his  car. 

"  I  also  am  going  to  Paris,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said.  "  If  you  will  permit  it,  I  shall  be  happy  to 
have  you  accompany  me." 

The  girl  swept  him  with  a  quick,  appraising 


8  PEGGY-ELISE 

look.  From  her  manner,  no  less  than  from  her 
appearance,  her  voice,  Venable  knew  that  he  was 
addressing  no  peasant  girl  but  a  woman  of  cul- 
ture, of  refinement. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  thanking 
him  with  her  eyes.  "  I  accept  most  gladly." 

"Then  get  in."  He  stepped  back  and  flung 
open  the  door  of  the  tonneau.  "  It  has  begun  to 
rain  again.  Permit  me  to  wrap  you  in  this  rug." 
In  a  moment  he  had  tucked  the  robe  about  her 
and  then,  climbing  to  his  seat  at  the  wheel,  set 
off  at  as  rapid  a  pace  as  the  growing  darkness 
would  permit. 

As  he  peered  into  the  mist  ahead,  Venable 
found  himself  pondering  the  curious  twist  of 
fate  that  had  brought  him  this  unexpected  pas- 
senger. Her  presence,  he  reflected,  was  certain 
to  alter  his  own  plans.  It  had  been  his  inten- 
tion to  push  on  to  Paris  that  night.  He  knew 
that  it  would  be  midnight,  or  later,  when  he 
arrived,  but  that  was  of  small  moment.  The 
prospect  of  a  hot  and  well-cooked  meal,  a  bottle 
of  claret,  at  his  favorite  restaurant,  provided  a 
sufficient  inducement  for  him  to  proceed.  The 
bread  and  meat,  the  small  bottle  of  red  wine  in 
his  hamper,  would  serve,  should  he  feel  the  pangs 
of  hunger  while  on  the  way. 

With  his  passenger,  however,  it  was  quite  dif- 
ferent. She  was  cold,  wet,  very  tired.  If  she 


PEGGY-ELISE  9 

had  eaten  since  morning,  her  pallid  face,  her 
trembling  limbs,  did  not  indicate  it.  He  felt 
that  she  needed  warm  food,  a  fire  at  which  to  dry 
herself,  rest.  The  long  drive  through  the  night 
air,  in  her  drenched  clothing,  might  result  in  a 
serious  illness.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
With  a  sigh  of  regret,  he  turned  to  the  huddled 
figure  in  the  rear  seat. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  softly,  "  would  you 
not  like  to  stop  and  get  something  to  eat,  some- 
thing hot?  You  could  also  dry  your  clothes  — ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  He  looked  closely  at 
his  companion.  Either  she  had  fallen  asleep, 
or  had  suddenly  become  unconscious.  He  hesi- 
tated no  longer.  The  lights  of  a  village  glowed 
through  the  mist,  a  short  distance  ahead.  He 
would  stop  at  once. 

There  were  few  persons  about,  but  from  a  bent 
old  woman  he  managed  to  glean  that  he  was  in 
a  town  not  far  from  Epernay.  There  was  an 
inn,  the  woman  told  him,  the  Maison  Chevalier. 
Obligingly,  she  pointed  it  out. 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  enormously  stout 
and  competent  looking  woman  of  forty-five.  She 
was  dres&ed  in  black,  but  its  shadow  had  not 
dimmed  the  fire  in  her  eyes,  nor  softened  the  res- 
olute, even  defiant  look  with  which  she  gazed  out 
upon  the  world.  Yet  in  her  courage  there 
seemed  also  an  infinite  tenderness,  as  of  one  who 


10  PEGGY-ELISE 

bad  looked  not  only  upon  life,  but  upon  suffering 
and  death,  as  well. 

Venable  had  found,  to  his  joy,  that  his  com- 
panion was  merely  asleep.  She  seemed  dazed, 
uncertain,  when  he  aroused  her,  but  agreed  at 
once,  although  without  enthusiasm,  to  his  sug- 
gestion that  they  dry  themselves  and  sup.  Hav- 
ing disposed  of  the  car  at  one  side  of  the  little 
courtyard  into  which  they  had  driven,  he  took 
the  girl  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to  the  door  of 
the  inn. 

The  stout  woman,  who  had  opened  the  door, 
proved  to  be  Madame  Chevalier  herself,  and  as 
the  light  from  the  room  fell  upon  the  faces  of  the 
two  before  her  she  inventoried  them  with  swift 
yet  kindly  eyes. 

"  Entrez,  mes  enfants!  "  she  exclaimed,  step- 
ping to  one  side.  "  But  you  are  wet,  is  it  not? 
And  tired?  Come  in." 

"  Mademoiselle  is  very  fatigued,"  Venable  said 
to  her,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  "  She 
should  have  dry  clothing,  something  hot  to  eat. 
After  that,  perhaps,  a  bed.  It  is  too  far  to 
go  on  to  Paris,  to-night." 

The  girl  turned,  gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  very  kind,  very  thoughtful  of  you,  mon- 
sieur," she  whispered.  "  You  are  a  stranger  to 
me,  but  be  assured  I  shall  not  forget  your  kind- 
ness." 


PEGGY-ELISE  11 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  Venable,  turning  toward 
the  fire,  and  searching  for  his  pipe.  "  Madame 
will,  I  am  sure,  take  good  care  of  you,  and  pro- 
vide you  with  what  you  need." 

"  This  way,  my  child,"  bustled  the  older 
woman.  "  There  are  some  things,  my  daughter's, 
that  will  suit  you,  I  feel  sure.  She  does  not  need 
them,  now  —  the  little  Georgette  —  for  she 
works  in  the  hospital  at  Chalons."  She  turned, 
for  a  moment,  regarding  Venable  with  an  eager 
look.  "  You  come  from  the  front,  monsieur?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  From  Verdun,''  Venable  replied. 

"  How  goes  it  with  France?  " 

"  There  were  heavy  assaults,  yesterday,  at  the 
Thiaumont  Farm.  They  were  all  repulsed.  The 
boches  died  like  flies,  but  bravely.  They  fight 
well." 

"Yes  — that  is  true.  But  the  little  Petain 
will  not  let  them  pass.  I  have  seen  him.  Once, 
he  had  coffee,  here,  in  this  very  room.  With  him 
two  of  my  sons  have  died."  She  said  this  quite 
dispassionately,  as  one  who  spoke  of  events  re- 
mote, detached,  with  a  splendid  and  impersonal 
pride. 

The  young  girl  touched  her  arm. 

"  My  father  was  also  killed  —  at  Le  Mort 
Homme  —  Captain  Lascelles.  He  — "  she  hes- 
itated, choking  down  a  sob  —  "  he  was  all  I  had. 


12  JJPJGGY-ELISE 

You    have,    perhaps,    other    sons,    madame? " 

"  One.  And  my  man,  Raymond.  He  is  in  the 
artillery.  Those  two  are  left  me.  Le  bon  Dieu 
has  indeed  been  kind.  Come!  I  am  chattering 
here,  when  you  should  have  dry  clothes  on  your 
back.  And  the  supper.  What  shall  it  be,  mon- 
sieur? I  will  prepare  it  at  once." 

"  Chicken  —  an  omelet  —  soup,  perhaps  — 
whatever  you  have" — he  felt  sure  his  compan- 
ion had  eaten  little  that  day  — "  and  some  wine. 
Red,  yes.  And  coffee." 

"  Good.  You  need  not  wait  long.  Come,  ma- 
demoiselle." She  led  the  way  into  a  hall  at  the 
rear,  and  the  girl  followed  her.  The  warmth, 
perhaps  the  woman's  words,  had  brought  a  bit  of 
color  to  her  cheeks,  an  erectness  to  her  tired 
and  drooping  shoulders. 

"  The  good  God  has  indeed  been  kind !  "  Ven- 
able,  gazing  into  the  fire,  revolved  the  words  in 
his  mind.  How  gloriously  the  spirit  of  France 
spoke  in  them.  How  nobly  had  her  women  re- 
sponded to  her  call.  "  The  good  God  has  indeed 
been  kind — "  with  two  sons  dead!  Such  a  na- 
tion might  be  crushed,  destroyed ;  it  could  not  be 
beaten.  And  he,  an  American,  was  rushing  back 
to  Paris,  impelled  by  visions  of  a  well-cooked  din- 
ner, a  bottle  of  wine,  while  men  fought,  with 
the  courage  of  heroes,  for  the  sake  of  an 
ideal.  . 


PEGGY-ELISE  13 

The  supper  of  sorrel  soup,  omelet,  roast 
chicken  was  deliciously  prepared.  The  wine,  a 
thin  claret,  was  by  no  means  bad.  Venable 
served  his  companion  in  silence,  while  Madame 
Chevalier  bustled  about,  chattering  of  the  news 
of  the  day,  which  seemed'  but  a  reflection  of  the 
conflict  which  was  going  on  so  short  a  distance 
away.  Monsieur  Mercier,  the  village  doctor,  had 
been  killed  last  week.  The  boches  fired  upon  the 
Red  Cross  flag,  it  seemed.  Geoffroi  Pierre,  the 
notary,  had  lost  both  legs.  Noel  Pitou  was 
blind,  but  the  shell  had  not  effaced  his  cheerful 
smile.  Madame  Chevalier  spoke  exultantly. 
Her  look,  as  she  referred  to  some  act  of  self-sac- 
rifice, of  heroism,  was  triumphant.  Venable  re- 
alized that  the  war  was  not  alone  at  Verdun,  at 
Rheims,  at  Ypres,  but  in  the  hearts  of  the  people 
of  France.  Their  baptism  of  fire  had  given  birth, 
not  to  heroes  alone,  but  to  heroism,  alike  in  roy- 
alist and  republican,  professor  and  gamin,  gen- 
eral and  humble  poilu.  Presently,  the  older 
woman  left  them,  to  attend  to  the  wants  of  some 
noisy  customers  in  the  taproom,  and  Venable 
and  Mademoiselle  Lascelles  were  left  alone. 

He  had  felt  something  of  a  shock,  when  she 
had  entered  the  room,  with  Madame  Chevalier 
beaming  over  her  shoulder.  The  change  of  cloth- 
ing, the  simple  dress  of  white,  softly  open  at  the 
throat,  the  daintily  arranged  hair,  had  trans- 


14  PEGGY-ELISE 

formed  the  girl  from  a  dejected  and  bedraggled 
object  to  a  creature  of  astonishing  beauty  and 
charm.  The  warmth  had  brought  a  faint  flush 
to  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes,  large  and  luminous, 
were  no  longer  dull  with  fatigue.  Madame  Che- 
valier, the  girl  explained,  had  given  her  a  glass 
of  quinquina,  to  ward  off  danger  of  cold.  It  had 
made  her  feel  vastly  better. 

One  outstanding  fact  impressed  Venable.  The 
girl,  who  had  seemed  speechless  with  grief,  so 
short  a  time  before,  who  had  spoken  of  her  father, 
but  recently  killed,  and  of  her  pilgrimage  to  visit 
his  grave,  now  seemed  brave,  self-possessed,  al- 
most cheerful.  A  spirit  of  optimism  spoke  in 
her  voice,  shone  in  her  eyes.  Had  it  been  the 
short  rest,  the  warmth,  the  unexpected  kind- 
ness of  strangers  that  had  so  changed  her? 
More  likely,  he  thought,  it  was  a  reflection  of  the 
indomitable  spirit  of  heroism  which  the  older 
woman  had  exhibited. 

Venable  made  no  reference  to  her  journey  or 
its  cause.  He  thought  it  might  please  her  to 
have  him  tell  her  something  about  himself. 

"  I  am  glad,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  that  I 
happened  to  be  coming  from  Verdun,  to-day.  It 
was  most  fortunate.  Listen  —  it  is  raining 
hard."  The  storm  was  driving  in  vicious,  slash- 
ing gusts  against  the  panes  of  the  windows. 
"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  on  the  road." 


PEGGY-ELISE  15 

"  It  was  most  fortunate  for  me,  monsieur,"  the 
girl  replied,  with  smiling  eyes. 

"  I  had  gone  to  Verdun  to  see  a  very  dear 
friend  of  mine,  an  American,"  Venable  con- 
tinued. "  He  was  in  the  flying  corps,  and  had 
done  splendid  work.  Last  week  his  machine  fell 
—  a  broken  wing,  from  shrapnel  fire.  His  in- 
juries were  very  severe.  They  could  not  bring 
him  to  Paris.  He  died  last  night." 

He  paused.  How  stupidly,  yet  unintention- 
ally, he  had  brought  the  conversation  around  to 
the  very  topic  he  had  most  wished  to  avoid.  Yet 
what  other  topic  existed,  that  did  not  involve 
this  one?  The  war,  like  a  huge  octopus,  had 
reached  out  its  tentacles  until  they  clutched  at 
every  human  interest,  every  human  heart. 

"  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,"  the  girl  said  sympa- 
thetically. Then,  after  a  pause :  "  Do  you  live 
in  Paris,  monsieur?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle.  For  the  present,  at  least. 
But  my  home  is  in  New  York.  I  am  an  Amer- 
ican." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that."  She  met  his  eyes,  a  twin- 
kle of  amusement  in  her  own,  in  spite  of  their 
shadows. 

"  Oh  —  you  mean  from  my  accent?  "  he  asked. 
"  But  then,  I  might  have  been  English." 

"  No.  You  see,  I  understand  the  difference." 
At  once  she  began  to  speak  in  Venable's  native 


16  PEGGY-ELISE 

tongue.  "My  mother  was  an  American  —  she 
came  from  Philadelphia." 

"  Really ! "  Venable  exclaimed,  astonished. 
"  I  had  thought  you  to  be  French  —  typically 
French.  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  know 
that  we  are  —  well  —  half  compatriots,  at  least. 
Is  your  mother  alive?  " 

"  No."  The  girl's  eyes  were  again  veiled  with 
shadows.  "  She  died  when  I  was  but  fourteen. 
I  am  quite  alone,  now.  You  see,  my  father,  when 
the  war  broke  out,  was  a  musician,  a  violinist. 
He  played  in  the  orchestra  at  the  Opera,  and  had 
some  pupils  as  well.  When  he  went  to  join  his 
regiment,  over  two  years  ago,  I  was  left  alone. 
He  had  saved  a  little,  but  it  did  not  last  long. 
I  have  been  working,  in  the  factories  where  the 
new  uniforms  are  made.  It  is  hard  work,  of 
course,  but  I  have  been  glad  to  do  what  I  could. 
Last  Saturday  a  message  came  to  me  from  one  of 
the  hospitals.  Henri  Musset,  the  actor  at  the 
Com£die,  who  was  one  of  my  father's  best  friends, 
and  in  his  regiment,  sent  to  me,  asking  me  to 
come  to  see  him.  He  had  been  struck  by  a  piece 
of  shell,  and  it  had  shattered  his  hip.  He  was 
very  ill.  When  I  went  to  the  hospital,  he  told 
me  that  my  father,  Captain  Lascelles,  had  been 
shot  at  Le  Mort  Hornine.  He  could  not  say 
whether  he  had  been  killed  or  not,  for  in  a  mo- 


PEGGY-ELISE  17 

merit  he  himself  lay  with  his  hip  broken.  That 
was  all  he  knew. 

"  I  left  Paris  at  once.  Through  a  friend  at 
the  Ministry  of  War  I  secured  an  order,  permit- 
ting me  to  go  to  the  front.  It  was  most  unusual. 
Women  are  not  allowed,  as  a  rule,  to  go.  But 
I  had  to  find  out  about  my  father.  So  I  went. 

"I  did  not  have  much  money,  but  it  was 
enough  to  get  me  to  St.  Menehould.  I  was  not 
permitted  to  go  farther.  There  is  a  hospital 
there  for  those  who  are  so  severely  wounded  that 
they  cannot  be  moved  beyond.  I  spent  three 
days  inquiring  for  news  of  my  father.  When  at 
last  I  was  successful,  I  found  that  he  had  been 
shot  through  the  breast,  and  had  lived  but  a  few 
hours.  He  had  been  buried  in  the  cemetery 
there.  I  found  his  grave.  I  put  some  flowers 
on  it  —  wild  flowers  that  I  gathered  in  the  woods. 
Then  I  started  back.  I  had  very  little  money, 
and,  therefore,  I  walked.  I  think  it  was  easier 
to  walk.  It  all  seemed  so  terrible  —  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  doing.  You  know  how  it  is, 
monsieur,  when  one  is  very  nervous,  very  sorrow- 
ful :  it  seems  better  to  move,  to  walk,  to  be  in 
the  air. 

"  There  was  a  letter  for  me,  that  my  father  had 
left.  He  had  written  it  before  the  attack  in 
which  he  was  killed.  Also,  they  had  given  him 


18  PEGGY-ELISE 

the  Croix  de  Guerre.  He  saved  a  line  of  trenches 
by  operating  a  machine  gun,  alone,  until  rein- 
forcements came.  He  was  found,  lying  across 
the  gun,  shot  through  the  breast.  I  wish  I  could 
have  seen  him  before  he  died,  but  I  was  too  late." 

"  You  have  indeed  a  splendid  inheritance, 
mademoiselle." 

"  Yes.  And  now,  monsieur,  be  so  good  as  to 
tell  me  more  of  yourself." 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  very  little  to  tell,"  re- 
plied Venable.  "  I  came  to  Paris  five  years  ago. 
I  am  a  sculptor,  a  pupil  of  Voisin.  He  has  en- 
couraged me  —  I  hope  that  I  may  justify  his 
praise.  I  have  been  working,  all  these  months, 
while  my  friends  have  gone  to  the  front,  have 
fought.  Paris  is  very  lonely.  I  have  felt,  since 
I  stood  at  Harding's  grave,  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter were  I,  too,  to  serve  France.  There  is  some- 
thing almost  trivial  in  the  work  of  the  artist, 
when  destiny  is  fashioning  so  vast  a  tragedy  but 
sixty  miles  away.  We  artists  attempt  to  picture, 
in  some  lame  fashion,  the  ideal.  What  does  it 
amount  to  when,  on  a  thousand  sections  of  the 
front,  the  ideal  is  daily  being  lived?  " 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  regarded  him  with  a 
comprehending  smile.  "  That  may  be  so,"  she 
agreed,  "  and  yet,  it  is  through  the  arts,  mon- 
sieur, that  the  masses  come  to  understand  the 
ideal.  '  The  Marseillaise '  did  not  celebrate  vie- 


PEGGY-ELISE  19 

tory  —  it  inspired  it.  It  is  not  the  generals,  the 
soldiers,  who  lead.  It  is  the  thinkers,  the  ideal- 
ists. They  must  point  out  the  way.  Napoleon 
did  not  create  the  Revolution;  Voltaire,  Rous- 
seau, had  done  that  before  him.  Do  not  despair 
of  your  work,  my  friend.  It  is  the  man  of  genius 
who  guides  the  world  —  is  it  not?  " 

"  You  encourage  me,  mademoiselle,'-  he  said. 
"  I  go  back  to  my  work  with  less  of  the  feeling 
that  I  am  a  shirker." 

The  clatter  of  rain  against  the  windows  of  the 
room  had  sensibly  increased.  Venable  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"  I  had  intended,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  to 
return  to  Paris  to-night,  but  it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. You  will  take  a  room  here,  of  course,  and 
in  the  morning  we  will  continue  our  journey." 

The  girl  faced  him  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  I  can  do  nothing  else,  monsieur,"  she  said. 
"  And  yet,  I  have  but  seven  francs.  If  my  din- 
ner, the  lodging  for  the  night,  and  breakfast  come 
to  more  than  that,  you  will,  of  course,  allow  me 
to  repay  you." 

"  Of  course,"  Venable  agreed  courteously. 
"  It  is  an  affair  of  chance  that  I  happen  to  have 
the  necessary  money  with  me.  Do  not,  I  beg  of 
you,  let  the  matter  cause  you  concern.  To  be 
of  service  to  you,  in  this  emergency,  is  a  great 
pleasure." 


20  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  room,"  the 
girl  said.  "  I  am  very  tired.  We  meet  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  In  the  morning."  Venable  put  out  his  hand 
and  clasped  his  companion's  slender  fingers  in 
his.  "  May  you  rest  well,  mademoiselle.  Good 
night!" 


CHAPTER  II 

V ENABLE  had  tried  to  work  all  day,  but  he 
could  not  bring  his  mind  to  the  task.     The 
devils  of  unrest  possessed  him.     The  moist  clay, 
instead  of  responding  to  his  touch,  seemed  to 
mock  him.     He  turned  away  in  disgust. 

The  afternoon  he  spent  puttering  aimlessly 
about  the  studio.  At  last,  in  desperation,  he  be- 
gan to  write  some  long  deferred  letters ;  but  even 
this  attempt  at  industry  was  presently  frustrated 
by  the  ringing  of  the  doorbell. 

Venable  opened  the  door.  A  young  girl  stood 
upon  the  threshold. 

For  a  moment  he  stared.  Then  recognition 
came  to  him. 

"  Mademoiselle  Lascelles !  "  he  exclaimed,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand. 

The  girl  took  it,  gently,  firmly,  a  grave  smile 
upon  her  face. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Venable,"  she  said  in 
English.  Venable,  in  a  confused  way,  realized 
once  more  her  astonishing  charm. 

"  Won't  you  come  in?  "  he  invited.  "  I  did 
not  know  you,  at  first.  I  am  glad  that  you  — 
remembered  me." 

21 


22  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  How  could  I  forget  you,  monsieur?  "  the  girl 
replied,  her  eyes  very  bright.  "  There  are  not 
so  many  who  are  kind." 

She  moved  toward  a  chair  he  indicated.  Ven- 
able  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  She  seemed 
singularly  different  from  the  girl  of  the  Verdun 
road.  There  was  a  buoyancy  about  her,  a  youth- 
ful effervescence,  that  had  been  lacking  at  their 
previous  meeting. 

She  wore  a  dress  of  black  silk,  very  plain,  and, 
because  of  its  plainness,  very  becoming.  Her 
figure,  which  had  seemed  slim,  almost  angular, 
in  the  drenched  garments  she  had  worn  when  he 
first  saw  her,  now  appeared  pleasingly  youthful 
and  round.  She  sparkled  with  the  joy  of  living, 
the  vivacity  of  youth. 

"  I  meant  to  come  before,  monsieur,"  the  girl 
said,  "  but  I  have  been  very  busy." 

"  Yes.  I  have  wondered  about  you.  I  hope 
you  feel  better." 

"  Oh,  much  better.  I  have  come  to  -ask  you  a 
question." 

"A  question?    What  is  it?" 

"  Have  you  need  for  a  model,  monsieur?  " 

"A  model?"  Venable  glanced  toward  the 
partially  completed  figure  of  Phryne  that  stood, 
swathed  in  moist  cloths,  upon  his  modeling  stand. 
"  You  are  not  a  model,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  that  is  true.     But  I  find  my- 


PEGGY-ELISE  23 

self  under  the  necessity  to  earn  some  money.  If 
T  can  do  so,  by  posing,  it  will  make  me  very 
happy. 

"  You  have  never  posed  before? "  Venable 
asked. 

"No.  Never.  But  why  should  I  not?  I 
have  good  lines  —  many  persons  have  told  me 
that." 

Venable  frowned  dubiously.  The  suggestion 
did  not  impress  him  favorably.  The  figure  of 
Phryne,  upon  which  he  was  engaged,  was  a  nude 
one,  a  representation  of  the  famous  courtesan  as 
she  stood,  naked,  before  the  Athenian  tribunal. 

"  I  have  already  a  model  for  the  statue,  made- 
moiselle," he  said ;  "  although,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile,  "  she  has  not  been  entirely  satisfactory." 

"  Then  will  you  not  let  me  take  her  place?  I 
have  the  best  of  reasons  for  desiring  to  do  this 
work." 

"  May  I  ask,  mademoiselle,  what  your  reasons 
are?  " 

"  Certainly.  My  mother's  sister,  Mrs.  Austen, 
in  America,  has  written  to  me,  asking  me  to  come 
to  her,  to  make  my  home  with  her  family  in  the 
future.  I  feel  that  I  should  go.  But  I  have  not 
the  money  —  I  need  at  least  five  hundred  francs 
for  the  journey,  monsieur.  It  is  a  great  sum. 
To  secure  it  I  must  work  at  something  that  will 
pay  better  than  making  uniforms.  You  see,  I 


24  PEGGY-ELISE 

have  studied  for  opera,  but  now  —  there  is  no  de- 
mand for  singers,  except  those  who  will  give  their 
services  for  nothing.  I,  too,  would  gladly  sing 
for  the  soldiers ;  but  I  must  earn  money  —  much 
money.  That  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"  Ah !  I  see.  Five  hundred  francs.  ...  It  is, 
as  you  say,  a  large  sum.  I  give  two  francs  an 
hour  to  my  models.  They  think  that  excellent 
pay.  It  would  take  you  a  long  time,  made- 
moiselle, to  earn  five  hundred  francs  at  that 
rate." 

The  girl's  face  fell.  She  made  no  effort  to  con- 
ceal her  disappointment. 

"  I  might  be  able  to  do  with  less,"  she  said,  with 
a  dismayed  smile.  "  Four  hundred  francs,  per- 
haps. How  many  hours  a  day  do  3rou  work, 
monsieur?  "  She  quite  evidently  had  not  aban- 
doned hope. 

"  It  depends  on  how  I  feel/1  Venable  laughed. 
"  Of  late,  I  have  done  very  little.  I  have  felt  no 
inspiration,  no  surety  of  touch.  But,  when 
things  are  going  well,  I  sometimes  work  for  five 
or  six  hours  a  day.  It  is  hard  work,  made- 
moiselle—  posing  for  such  a  length  of  time.  I 
doubt  if  you  could  endure  it." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  hard  work,  monsieur,"  the 
girl  replied.  She  paused,  making  some  sort  of 
mental  calculation.  "  Six  hours  a  day  would  be 
twelve  francs,  monsieur.  That  is  much  more 


PEGGY-ELISE  25 

than  I  could  earn  in  any  other  way,  in  these  ter- 
rible times.  In  less  than  two  months,  I  could 
save  enough,  I  am  sure,  to  go  to  America.  I 
will  take  the  position  if  you  think  I  can  fill  it 
satisfactorily." 

Venable  was  conscious  of  an  extreme  embar- 
rassment. Professional  models  he  was  able  to 
regard  quite  impersonally.  They  posed,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  free  from  any  questions  of  pro- 
priety. But  here  was  a  girl  of  his  own  class  — 
in  the  conventional  phrase,  a  lady.  Such  work 
was  wholly  new  to  her.  He  feared  she  had  un- 
derestimated its  difficulties. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  whether  you  would  suit  me  or  not,  without  see- 
ing your  undraped  figure.  This  is  the  piece  of 
work  I  am  doing."  He  drew  the  moist  cloths 
from  the  partly  finished  Phryne.  "  It  has  not 
gone  well.  I  am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it. 
Should  I  make  a  change  in  models,  I  must  of 
necessity  start  the  figure  over.  But  I  should 
not  regret  that,  for  the  pose  does  not  suit  me." 
He  had  called  the  girl's  attention  to  the  statue 
in  this  way,  hoping  that  when  she  fully  realized 
the  type  of  work  upon  which  he  was  engaged  she 
would  change  her  mind.  This,  however,  did  not 
prove  to  be  the  case.  She  regarded  the  clay 
figure  with  eager  eyes. 

"  It  is  exquisite,"   she   said.     "  I   have   seen 


26  PEGGY-ELISE 

only  one  other  Phryne  —  a  small  ivory  one,  in  the 
Louvre.  The  pose  is  quite  different.  I  like 
yours  much  better." 

"  Why?  "  Venable  asked,  wondering  whether 
his  companion  spoke  from  any  real  conviction  or 
merely  to  please  him.  Her  next  words  enlight- 
ened him. 

"  The  one  in  the  Louvre,"  she  said,  "  has  the 
face  averted,  the  hands  clasped  in  an  attitude  of 
modesty.  I  do  not  think  Phryne  would  have 
felt  that  way.  She  was  a  courtesan.  I  have 
read  that  she  took  delight  in  exhibiting  herself 
before  the  Athenians,  in  the  character  of  Aphro- 
dite, rising  from  the  sea.  Instead  of  being 
ashamed,  when  she  stood  nude  before  the  judges, 
I  think  she  would  have  been,  as  you  have  shown 
her,  proud  of  her  beauty,  almost  defiant." 

Venable  gazed  at  her  with  keen  interest.  That 
this  young  girl  should  so  instantly  have  grasped 
his  conception  of  the  famous  Greek  hetasra,  was 
little  short  of  amazing. 

"  You  know  the  story  of  Phryne,  I  see,"  he 
remarked. 

"  Yes.  My  father-  and  I  were  great  readers. 
He  thought  of  composing  an  opera,  once,  with 
Phryne  as  the  leading  character,  but  he  never 
did  it.  He  had  great  ambitions,  but  he  had  to 
work  very  hard,  and  did  not  have  much  time  to 
compose."  She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  Well, 


PEGGY-ELISE  27 

monsieur,"  she  asked,  at  length,  "  shall  I  try  the 
pose?  Then  you  can  tell  whether  or  not  I  would 
suit  you." 

Venable  was  puzzled  by  the  girl's  attitude. 
She  showed  no  embarrassment.  It  was  as 
though,  with  the  instincts  of  the  true  artist,  she 
could  dissociate  herself  completely  from  the  task 
before  her,  regarding  it,  in  a  way  charmingly 
naive,  as  a  necessary  means  to  an  end. 

"  Very  well,  mademoiselle,"  Venable  said, 
turning  to  the  rear  of  the  room.  "  You  can  make 
yourself  ready,  here."  He  indicated  a  low  couch, 
in  a  recess  behind  an  embroidered  Japanese 
screen.  This  couch  constituted  Venable's  bed, 
at  night.  During  the  day,  it  was  used  by  his 
models,  when  removing  their  street  clothing,  or 
when  resting  during  the  intervals  in  long  and 
trying  poses. 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  followed  him,  without 
any  observable  hesitation,  and  vanished  behind 
the  screen.  Venable  lit  a  cigarette,  fastened  a 
sheet  of  paper  upon  his  drawing  board,  and 
hunted  up  some  bits  of  charcoal.  If  the  girl 
suited  the  purposes  of  his  work,  and  he  saw  no 
reason  why  she  should  not,  he  concluded  that  he 
might  as  well  utilize  the  time  by  making  some 
sketches  of  her  in  various  poses.  Her  remarks 
concerning  the  character  of  Phryne  had  inter- 
ested him  greatly;  he  was  anxious  to  improve 


28  PEGGY-ELISE 

his  previous  conception  of  the  figure.  The  for- 
mer pose  had  lacked  spirit,  been  unconvincing. 
He  had  realized  this,  himself  —  vaguely  —  and 
as  a  result  his  interest  in  his  work  had  nagged. 

After  what  seemed  an  astonishingly  short  time, 
he  heard  Mademoiselle  Lascelles  speaking  to  him. 

"  I  am  ready,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

Venable  looked  up.  She  stood  before  the 
screen,  the  milk  whiteness  of  her  body  outlined  in 
delicately  graceful  curves  against  the  back- 
ground of  embroidered  blaek  satin. 

Her  figure,  as  Venable  instantly  realized,  was 
exquisitely  molded,  possessing  the  rare  combina- 
tion of  tender  youthful  lines,  with  the  superb 
grace  of  well-developed,  vigorous  womanhood. 
His  former  model,  a  splendid  creature,  physi- 
cally, now  seemed  in  retrospect  heavy  and  com- 
monplace, betraying  in  every  line  her  peasant 
origin.  He  thanked  the  good  fortune  that  had 
brought  him  so  perfect  a  subject  for  his  work. 

Going  to  the  model  stand,  he  threw  a  bit  of 
silk  drapery  across  its  wooden  surface. 

"  Stand  here,  if  you  please,  mademoiselle,''  he 
said,  endeavoring  to  conceal  both  his  surprise 
and  his  pleasure.  He  felt  that  it  would  please 
her  to  have  him  appear  totally  unconscious  of 
the  fact  that  this  experience,  an  every-day  one 
to  him,  was  quite  another  matter  to  her.  That 
her  calmness  was  assumed,  he  very  well  knew. 


PEGGY-ELISE  29 

He  found  himself  admiring  her  singular  courage. 

The  mellow  afternoon  glow,  filtering  through 
the  skylight,  rested  tenderly,  lovingly,  upon  the 
girl's  round  full  throat,  her  firm,  upturned 
breasts,  her  slender,  almost  boyish,  hips,  and 
gave  to  her  smooth  skin  the  quality  of  pale, 
polished  ivory.  A  trace  of  color  crept  into  her 
cheeks,  as  she  felt  Venable's  gaze  upon  her.  He 
caught  her  eyes.  In  them  he  glimpsed  not 
shame,  not  embarrassment,  but  a  fine  clear  glow 
of  bravery,  of  determination. 

"  Will  you  indicate  the  pose,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "  that  you  had  in  mind  when  you  spoke  a 
few  moments  ago?  What  you  said  interested 
me  very  much.  You  see,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile,  "  I  am  asking  you  to  help  me." 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  acknowledged  the  com- 
pliment with  a  flush  of  pleasure.  It  delighted 
her  to  think  that  Venable  had  really  found  her 
suggestions  worthy  of  attention. 

"I  —  I  think  it  might  have  been  something 
like  this,"  she  said  hesitatingly.  Then  she 
dropped  her  arms  at  her  sides,  extended  forward 
very  slightly,  as  though  in  appeal.  Yet  the  ap- 
peal was  dominated  by  a  look  of  pride,  of  confi- 
dence in  the  power  of  her  beauty.  Her  chin  was 
raised  a  trifle,  her  glance  bent  upward  toward 
the  imaginary  judges  with  an  enigmatic  smile. 
Her  face,  her  manner,  her  whole  pose  seemed  to 


30  PEGGY-ELISE 

say :  "  I  am  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Greece.  You  will  not  dare  condemn  me." 

Venable  realized  instantly  that  the  pose  for 
which  he  had  so  vainly  sought,  during  the  past 
few  weeks,  had  been  almost  miraculously  given 
to  him.  He  trembled  lest  the  girl  move  before 
he  had  had  an  opportunity  to  record  it  in  black 
and  white. 

"  That  is  splendid  —  splendid !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Do  you  think  you  can  stand  just  that  way,  for 
a  few  moments?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  not  hard.  My  arms,  you  see,  are 
in  a  perfectly  natural  position,  so  that  there  is 
no  strain."  She  stood,  immovable,  a  thing  of 
beauty. 

Venable,  rapidly  sketching  the  lines  of  her 
figure,  thought  that  it  was  indeed  the  very 
naturalness  of  the  pose,  the  easy  grace,  the  ab- 
sence of  all  striving  for  effect,  that  made  it  so 
perfect.  Inspired,  he  worked  rapidly,  eagerly, 
forgetting  everything  in  his  absorption  in  his 
work.  A  front  view  completed,  he  moved  to  an- 
other position,  and  made  a  second,  and  later,  a 
third  sketch. 

"  Are  you  tired,  now?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  very."  Mademoiselle  Lascelles  lowered 
her  head  with  a  sigh.  The  effort  to  remain  per- 
fectly still  had  proven  a  strain.  "  I  '11  be  all 
right  again,  in  a  moment  or  two." 


PEGGY-ELISE  31 

"  You  had  better  sit  down  and  rest  awhile." 
Venable  handed  her  a  kimono,  and  lit  a  ciga- 
rette. "  I  cannot  tell  you,  mademoiselle,  how 
much  you  have  helped  me.  Look."  He  showed 
her  the  sketches  he  had  made.  "  It  is  just  the 
pose  for  which  I  have  been  looking." 

The  girl  had  thrown  the  kimono  about  her  and 
sat  in  a  low  chair,  gazing  quietly  up  at  him. 

"  I  am  glad,  very  glad,  if  I  have  helped,"  she 
said.  "  Do  you  want  to  start,  again?  I  'm  quite 
rested,  now."  She  rose  and  went  toward  the 
model  stand. 

"  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  do  any  more,  to-day," 
Venable  replied.  "  You  see,  I  must  break  down 
this  thing  " —  he  pounded  the  wet  clay  — "  and 
arrange  to  start  all  over  again.  Anyway,  it ' s 
much  too  late.  I  usually  go  to  dinner  at  half- 
past  six." 

"  Surely  it  is  n't  that  late,  now?  " 

"  No."  Venable  consulted  his  watch.  "  Only 
a  little  after  five.  But  I  must  dress."  He 
glanced  down  at  his  smock.  "  If  you  will  do  me 
the  honor,  mademoiselle,  I  should  be  very  happy 
to  have  you  dine  with  me." 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  sorry,  monsieur.  It  would  have  been  a 
pleasure.  But  I  must  work." 

"  Work?  "  said  Venable,  surprised. 

"  But,  yes,  monsieur.     I  have  arranged  to  sew, 


32  PEGGY-ELISE 

every  evening,  from  eight  until  ten,  for  the  Keel 
Cross.  So  many  bandages  are  needed  —  you  can 
understand,  of  course.  And  when  our  men  are 
fighting  so  hard,  out  there  at  the  front,  it  seems 
almost  —  heartless  —  to  do  nothing  to  help. 
Don't  you  think  so?  Oh,  I  love  pleasure,  mon- 
sieur —  I  love  music,  and  the  theatre,  and  to 
dance.  But  not  now/'  With  a  quick  smile,  she 
passed  behind  the  screen. 

Venable  turned  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  He 
felt  disappointed  at  the  thought  of  having  her 
go.  Drawing  a  two-franc  piece  from  his  pocket, 
he  placed  it  on  the  table.  Mademoiselle  Las- 
celles  was  still  dressing. 

Presently,  she  came  from  behind  the  screen, 
her  face  eager,  animated,  her  eyes  sparkling. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you,  monsieur,  whether  1 
suited  you  or  not?  It  seems  I  merely  assumed 
it.  Do  you  want  me  for  a  model?  Will  I 
really  do?  " 

Venable  took  the  two-franc  piece  from  the 
table  and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with  smiling  eyes, 
"you  will  not  only  do,  but,  should  you  feel  in- 
clined to  ask  it,  I  would  willingly  pay  you  not 
only  two  francs  an  hour,  but  four  —  five,  rather 
than  lose  you.  I  believe  that,  with  you  as  my 
model,  this  Phryne  will  be  a  masterpiece.  So, 


PEGGY-ELISE  33 

you  see,  mademoiselle,  you  have  me  in  your 
power.'' 

The  girl  joined  in  his  laugh,  her  voice  very 
clear  and  bell-like. 

"  I  am  not  sufficiently  conceited  to  think  any 
such  thing,  monsieur.  If  I  can  earn  the  two 
francs  an  hour,  I  shall  be  very  grateful  indeed. 
At  what  time  shall  I  come,  in  the  morning?  " 

"  At  —  let  us  say  ten  o'clock,"  Venable  replied. 
"  Will  that  suit  you?  " 

"  Perfectly,  monsieur.  Or  earlier,  if  you  like. 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  do,  after  breakfast." 

"  Then  suppose  we  say  nine." 

"  Very  well.  Nine.  I  am  very  thankful  to 
you.  Now,  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  America." 

The  thought  of  her  going  did  not  arouse  in 
Venable  any  feelings  of  enthusiasm.  With  a 
model,  such  as  this,  what  might  not  a  man  do? 
Her  mere  presence  was  an  inspiration. 

"  Why,  mademoiselle,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  so 
very  anxious  to  leave  France?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Here,  there  is  no  room  for 
empty  mouths.  I  can  get  a  little  pension  from 
the  government,  it  is  true,  but  I  prefer  to  leave 
even  that  small  sum  for  others  who  may  need  it 
more.  As  for  work  —  I  can  sew  uniforms,  yes, 
or  something  of  the  sort,  but  there  are  many  to 
do  that  who  are  able  to  do  nothing  else.  I  feel 


34  PEGGY-ELISE 

that  I  am  able,  monsieur.  I  have  ambitions. 
In  your  so  rich  country,  there  is,  I  am  told,  a 
greater  opportunity.  That  is  why  I  wish  to  go. 
My  aunt,  Mrs.  Austen,  would  have  sent  me  the 
passage  money,  I  suppose,  but  she  could  not  have 
thought  that  I  was  penniless.  I  shall  write  to 
her,  telling  her  that  I  cannot  come  until  July. 
That  should  give  me  time,  do  you  not  think?  I 
will  work  very  hard,  monsieur;  and  at  home  I 
will  practice  the  pose,  so  that  my  muscles  may 
become  accustomed  to  it,  and  not  grow  tired. 
Oh  —  I  am  very  industrious.  You  will  see." 
With  a  smile,  she  adjusted  her  hat. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  mademoiselle.  And  you 
will  dine  with  me,  some  time,  will  you  not?  Per- 
haps you  do  not  sew  for  the  hospitals  on 
Sunday? " 

"  No.  If  it  would  please  you,  monsieur,  I 
could  dine  with  you  on  Sunday.'' 

"  It  would  please  me  very  much.  We  will 
start  early  and  go  to  St.  Cloud.  What  do  you 


"  It  would  be  delightful,  but  — "  she  hesitated, 
as  though  she  feared  to  hurt  his  feelings  — "  do 
you  usually  dine  with  your  models,  monsieur?  " 

Venable  flushed.     The  question  annoyed  him. 

"While  in  my  studio,  mademoiselle,  you  are 
my  model,  it  is  true.  But,  outside  it,  I  should 


PEGGY-ELISE  35 

be  very  happy  if  you  will  consent  to  be  —  my 
friend."  He  put  out  his  hand. 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  took  it  in  her  firm, 
cool  grasp. 

"  I  am  honored,  monsieur,  that  you  should 
wish  it.  I  will  come  to-morrow  at  nine.  Good 
day."  With  a  charming  smile  she  left  him. 
Venable  sat  for  an  hour  thinking  and  smoking. 
Then  he  dressed  and  went  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  III 

VENABLE  was  a  sculptor  be- 

cause  he  most  desired  to  be  a  sculptor, 
which  was  —  as  such  things  go  —  rather  an  un- 
usual circumstance. 

The  elder  Venable  had  been  a  lawyer,  a  man 
of  unusual  intelligence.  When  Gilbert,  at  the 
age  of  ten,  began  to  exhibit  tendencies  toward  an 
artistic  career,  by  carving  tiny  heads  from  soap- 
stone,  or  modeling  grotesque  figures  in  putty  or 
wax,  Mr.  Venable  did  not  assert  that  art  was 
not  only  long  but  highly  unprofitable  —  although 
he  may  have  realized  it.  Instead,  he  encouraged 
the  boy's  early  efforts,  took  him  to  art  galleries 
and  museums,  saw  that  he  had  special  courses 
in  drawing  and  modeling  at  school,  and  later, 
when  his  college  courses  had  been  completed,  sent 
him  to  Paris  to  study  under  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated sculptors  in  France.  Some  thwarted  am- 
bitions in  his  own  youth  had  made  him  kind. 

Luckily  Gilbert  was  an  only  child,  and  Mr. 
Venable,  being  a  wridower,  was  able  at  his  death 
to  leave  his  son  sufficient  money  to  pursue  his 
artistic  career  in  reasonable  comfort.  The  re- 
sults had  been  excellent.  The  young  man,  in- 

38 


PEGGY-ELISE  37 

stead  of  consuming  his  energies  in  an  attempt  to 
earn  a  living  through  his  art  while  still  striving 
to  master  it,  had  been  able  to  devote  these  ener- 
gies exclusively  to  the  latter  end.  It  was  hinted, 
through  the  studios,  that  Gilbert  Venable  had 
before  him  a  brilliant  future. 

His  father's  advice  concerning  the  affairs  of 
life  had  been  brief  but  explicit.  "  Put  success 
above  money,"  he  had  said.  "  Do  not  marry. 
To  do  so  is  apt  to  spell  disaster,  for  the  artist. 
If,  however,  you  find  that  you  must  take  a  wife, 
wait  at  least  until  you  have  first  achieved  suc- 
cess." 

Venable  hearkened  to  this  rather  worldly  ad- 
vice, largely  because  he  had  not  met  a  woman 
who  attracted  him  sufficiently  to  tempt  him  to 
disregard  it.  He  considered  himself  a  confirmed 
bachelor.  His  life,  in  the  brilliant  French  capi- 
tal, had  been  the  life  of  the  artist.  His  occa- 
sional affairs  of  the  heart  had  been  with  models, 
cocottes,  the  women  of  the  Quarter;  they  had 
been  no  more  enduring  than  the  bubbles  in  a 
glass  of  champagne.  Other  women,  women  of 
his  own  world,  he  rarely  saw.  An  occasional  one 
from  the  States,  anxious  to  be  shown  the  sights  of 
the  city,  to  dine  in  restaurants  which  did  not 
figure  in  the  guide  books,  comprised  his  experi- 
ence with  them.  For  the  rest,  he  worked  a  great 
deal,  played  a  little,  and  looked  upon  marriage 


38  PEGGY-ELISE 

as  a  bourgeois  attempt  to  chain  romance  to  a 
humdrum  fireside. 

There  flitted  occasionally  through  his  dreams 
the  vision  of  an  ideal  woman,  one  who  might  be 
as  interesting  mentally  as  she  was  desirable 
physically  —  a  wife  who  could  be  at  the  same 
time,  mistress,  adviser,  comrade,  inspiration, 
critic,  and  friend  —  but  he  had  never  met  such 
a  woman,  and  at  heart  he  gravely  doubted  that 
any  such  really  existed. 

This  creature  of  his  dreams,  usually  so  evanes- 
cent, so  remotely  in  the  background,  had  under- 
gone a  momentary  materialization  in  the  person 
of  Mademoiselle  Lascelles.  He  found  himself 
picturing  her,  not  as  a  temporary  visitor  to  his 
studio,  but  as  its  permanent  occupant.  She  was 
as  alone  in  the  world  as  he  was.  Why  should 
she  be  obliged  to  go  to  America,  to  become  a  de- 
pendent upon  the  charity  of  her  relatives?  He 
laughed  at  himself,  as  he  brushed  the  vision 
aside,  but  it  persisted  in  troubling  him. 

Just  what  Mademoiselle  Lascelles  herself 
thought,  he  did  not  know.  In  spite  of  her  de- 
ceptive candor,  he  found  the  girl  singularly  re- 
served. For  a  woman  so  unusually  attractive, 
she  appeared  to  be  quite  unaware  of  the  fact 
that  her  charms  might  be  used  to  her  advantage. 
Venable  had  supposed  that  all  women  made  use 
of  the  power  of  sex  attraction  to  influence  men 


PEGGY-ELISE  39 

in  their  favor,  even  if  only  through  such  minor 
devices  as  dress,  smiles,  coquettish  glances.  But 
Mademoiselle  Lascelles  seemingly  knew  nothing 
of  such  artifices.  She  wore  her  plain  black 
frocks  with  an  air,  but  she  seemed  sublimely  un- 
conscious of  the  fact.  There  was  in  her  manner 
toward  him  not  the  slightest  trace  of  appeal. 
She  smiled  when  she  was  amused,  which  was 
often,  but  she  did  not  smile  either  to  flatter  or 
please  him.  Venable  wondered  whether  this  at- 
titude toward  his  sex  was  a  natural  one,  or  one 
she  had  assumed,  in  his  particular  case,  more 
effectually  to  preserve  the  footing  of  employer 
and  employee.  He  attempted,  in  various  little 
ways,  to  find  out;  but  his  efforts  met  with  com- 
plete failure.  Could  his  newly  found  model  be 
so  superlatively  clever,  that  she  was  attempting 
to  arouse  in  him,  by  a  pretended  indifference,  an 
interest  which  she  could  never  have  produced 
by  the  more  usual  methods  of  her  sex?  It  was 
an  interesting  speculation.  He  frequently  occu- 
pied his  mind  with  it. 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  had  appeared 
promptly,  the  first  morning,  at  nine,  and  had  as- 
sumed the  pose  of  the  afternoon  before  without 
great  difficulty.  He  had  been  obliged  to  help  her 
a  little,  to  touch  her  white,  cool  flesh,  to  bend 
her  arm  a  trifle,  to  turn  one  shoulder  toward  the 
light.  She  shrank  from  his  touch;  then  in- 


40  PEGGY-ELISE 

st&ntly  recovered  herself,  as  though  she  had  been 
unaware  of  it.  Venable  thought  the  more  of  her 
because  of  her  sensitiveness,  without  fully  real- 
izing the  terror  with  which  she  faced  her  task. 
Perhaps  it  required  courage  on  her  part  of  an 
order  no  less  high  than  that  which  had  filled  the 
breast  of  Captain  Lascelles,  when  he  faced  that 
gray-coated  flood  at  La  Mort  Homme. 

The  opportunities  for  conversation,  during  the 
hours  of  work,  were  limited.  It  was  only  when 
the  girl  was  resting  that  Venable  was  able  to  talk 
to  her.  These  periods  of  rest  he  insisted  upon 
with  far  greater  frequency  than  he  would  have 
had  she  been  a  professional  model.  He  knew, 
instinctively,  that  the  girl  would  drop  from 
fatigue  before  she  would  ask  for  a  breathing 
spell,  and  to  her  unaccustomed  muscles  the  tast 
was  necessarily  very  trying. 

He  asked  her,  once,  how  she  liked  the  work. 
Her  answer  surprised  him. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  like  it  at  all,  monsieur," 
she  said,  with  her  quick  smile.  "  I  am  happy, 
truly,  to  help  you  create  a  masterpiece,  but  to  be 
a  model  all  my  life  —  no,  that  I  should  not  like/' 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  marriage,  made- 
moiselle? "  he  said,  with  an  odd,  cynical  smile. 
"  Most  women  look  to  that  as  an  escape  from  the 
struggle  for  existence." 

"  I  should  think  it  a  pity,  monsieur,  to  regard 


PEGGY-ELISE  41 

it  in  that  way.  Truty,  I  should  rather  remain  a 
model  than  take  a  husband  for  such  a  reason. 
Marriage  is  far  more  than  just  to  exist.  My 
father  and  mother  were  very  happy  because  they 
loved  each  other.  Can  one  live,  always,  without 
love,  monsieur?  " 

"Love  need  not  necessarily  imply  marriage," 
observed  Venable,  watching  the  girl  closely.  He 
was  anxious  to  see  what  effect  his  cynicism  would 
have  upon  her. 

The  result  was  disappointing.  The  idea 
seemed  neither  to  shock  her,  nor  to  elicit  any 
expression  of  agreement. 

"  That  is  as  one  pleases,"  she  said  calmly. 
"  Certainly,  people  do  not  love  because  they  are 
married.  But  they  marry,  I  think,  when  they 
love  —  and  the  man  would,  necessarily,  wish  to 
give  both  the  woman  he  loved,  and  their  possible 
children,  the  respect  of  society,  the  protection  of 
the  law." 

Venable  found  the  argument  unanswerable 
enough,  from  a  practical  standpoint,  at  least. 
He  smiled  to  himself  as  his  companion  went  on. 

"  Perhaps,  monsieur,  you  have  never  experi- 
enced love." 

"  I  think  you  may  be  quite  right,"  he  asserted. 
"  Have  you,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  No.  Not  yet.  I  have  known  so  few  men.  1 
fear  I  do  not  understand  them.  You  see,  my 


42  PEGGY-ELISE 

mother  died  when  I  was  only  fourteen  —  that  is 
five  years  ago.  After  that,  I  had  to  take  her 
place;  my  father  needed  me  to  care  for  him. 
You  may  know,  monsieur,  that  musicians  are  not 
what  you  call  —  practical.  If  he  had  a  few 
francs,  it  filled  him  with  joy  —  he  was  rich.  I 
was  obliged  to  manage  everything.  It  made  him 
very  happy.  We  had  a  little  apartment.  I 
cooked,  of  course,  and  paid  out  the  money,  and 
mended  his  clothes,  and  then,  we  read  together, 
and  I  nursed  him  when  he  was  sick  —  which  was 
quite  often,  monsieur,  because  he  could  not  stand 
wine  very  well.  And  his  friends  —  well,  you 
know  how  musicians,  artists,  are.  He  said  I 
was  a  great  comfort  to  him."  She  turned  away, 
and  Venable  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  her  eyes 
had  filled  with  tears.  "  I  have  known  scarcely 
any  men,  monsieur.  There  was  one,  after  my 
father  went  away  with  his  regiment  —  a  young 
man,  who  played  the  'cello.  He  was  lame  and 
could  not  go  into  the  army.  He  wished  me  to 
marry  him,  but  I  did  not  love  him,  so  of  course 
I  could  not.  I  was  sorry,  for  he  seemed  to  be 
very  unhappy, —  but  what  could  I  do?  " 

It  was  on  their  excursion  to  St.  Cloud  that 
Venable  saw  a  new  side  of  his  companion's  na- 
ture. Under  the  influence  of  the  spring  sunshine 
the  serene  gravity  of  the  girl  of  the  studio 


PEGGY-ELISE  43 

vanished.  She  became  light  hearted,  gay,  alto- 
gether charming. 

They  arranged  to  leave  Paris  in  the  forenoon, 
taking  a  luncheon  to  eat  in  the  woods.  Made- 
moiselle Lascelles  had  insisted  upon  preparing 
this  luncheon  herself ;  Venable,  equally  insistent, 
furnished  the  money  for  it.  Carrying  a  dainty 
basket,  she  had  met  him  at  the  studio,  her  smil- 
ing eyes  doing  much  to  relieve  the  somberness 
of  her  mourning  costume. 

They  made  the  trip  by  one  of  the  darting  little 
river  steamers.  There  were  not  many  persons 
on  the  boat  —  a  few  women,  children,  old  men. 
Mademoiselle  Lascelles  displayed  all  the  eager 
interest  of  a  child.  She  had  not  been  to  St. 
Cloud  for  over  three  years.  She  regretted  that 
the  fountains  would  not  be  playing,  until 
Venable  told  her  that  he  had  already  seen  them. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with  his  whimsical 
smile,  "  I  have  suddenly  realized,  to  my  surprise, 
that  I  do  not  know  your  first  name.  Tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  I  thought  you  would  ask  me  that  —  it  has 
seemed  strange,  always,  to  have  you  call  me 
'  mademoiselle.'  I  have  two  names,  monsieur. 
The  first,  my  mother  gave  me.  It  is  Marguerite." 

"  I  like  Marguerite,"  Venable  interrupted. 
"  It  suits  you  very  well  —  at  times." 


44  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Perhaps  it  does  —  at  times.  But  my  other 
name,  monsieur,  the  one  that  my  father  gave  me, 
is  Elise." 

"  '  Elise,'  "  Venable  repeated  the  name  softly 
to  himself.  "  That,  too,  I  like.  But  —  what  do 
people  call  you  —  those  who  —  who  know  you 
well?" 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  It  is  funny,  about  my  name,"  she  said.  "  My 
mother,  it  seems,  began  by  calling  me  Peggy. 
She  said  it  was  quite  American.  But  my  father 
preferred  Elise.  So,  in  the  end,  I  came  always  to 
be  called  Peggy-Elise,  just  as  though  it  were  one 
name.  Is  it  not  droll,  monsieur?  " 

"  Droll,  and  very  charming  as  well,"  Venable 
replied.  "  Peggy-Elise.  It  suits  you  admirably. 
At  times  you  seem  just  —  Peggy,  to  me,  when 
you  are  merry,  and  light-hearted,  as  you  are  to- 
day ;  and  then,  at  other  times,  you  seem  —  Elise. 
If  you  do  not  mind,  I  shall  call  you  by  both  your 
names,  Peggy-Elise." 

"  I  shall  like  that,  monsieur." 

"  But,  in  return,  you  must  call  me  by  my  first 
name.  I  don't  think  much  of  it,  but  it 's  the 
only  one  I  have  —  Gilbert." 

The  girl  murmured  the  name  to  herself: 
" '  Gilbert.'  Do  you  really  think  I  ought  to  take 
so  great  a  liberty  with  my  —  my  employer?  "  she 
asked,  archly. 


PEGGY-ELISE  45 

"  You  promised  to  forget  all  that,  to-day," 
Venable  reminded  her. 

"  And  I  will  keep  my  promise.  Look  —  there 
are  the  fountains."  She  pointed  to  the  sloping 
hillside. 

Venable,  carrying  the  basket,  helped  her 
ashore,  and  presently  they  were  mounting  the 
beautiful  winding  road  that  led  toward  Sevres. 

The  close  of  the  month  had  seen  an  end  to  the 
cold  rains,  and  the  trees  were  bravely,  boister- 
ously green.  All  along  the  roadside  spring  blos- 
soms lay  half  hidden  in  the  grass.  They  did  not 
stop  to  gather  any  of  them,  but  pushed  on  to 
the  summit,  and  their  objective,  the  park. 

The  selection  of  a  spot  at  which  to  eat  their 
luncheon,  was  the  subject  of  much  debate.  From 
the  Lanterne  there  was,  of  course,  the  view ;  but 
Mademoiselle  Lascelles,  after  they  had  rested 
from  their  climb  and  feasted  their  eyes  upon  the 
magnificent  panorama,  decided  that  it  would  be 
nicer  to  find  a  cool  and  shaded  spot  in  the  for- 
est, and  in  this  Venable  heartily  concurred.  He 
was  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  spring,  and 
thought  of  himself  as  some  twentieth-century 
Pan,  suddenly  released  from  the  bondage  of 
bricks  and  mortar,  plunging  into  the  dim,  forest 
glades  with  a  charming  dryad. 

They  found  a  rustic  bench,  along  a  little  path 
bordered  with  splendid  oaks.  Through  the 


46  PEGGY-ELISE 

trunks  of  the  trees  they  caught  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  silver  ribbon  of  the  Seine. 

Mademoiselle  Lascelles  ran  to  the  bench  with 
a  cry  of  delight. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried.  "  It 's  lovely !  Let  us  eat 
our  luncheon  here  —  Gilbert !  "  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  used  the  name,  and  she  hesitated 
charmingly  over  the  unaccustomed  syllables. 

"  Yes,  Peggy-Elise,"  Venable  laughed,  putting 
down  the  basket.  "  Shall  I  help  you  to  set  the 
table?  " 

"  Xo  —  no.  I  will  do  that.  You  can  gather 
some  flowers  to  decorate  it.  This  is  an  occasion, 
monsieur.  Our  first  meal  together.  We  must 
not  omit  the  formalities." 

"  Nor  the  informalities,"  he  added,  smiling, 
then  began  to  hunt  through  the  grass  for  violets. 
There  were  not  many  to  be  found,  but  he  picked 
nothing  else.  When  he  presently  returned  to  the 
bench,  with  a  small  handful,  he  found  his  com- 
panion impatiently  awaiting  him. 

"  Come,  Monsieur  Gilbert,"  she  cried. 
"  Everything  is  ready." 

"  Very  well,  Mademoiselle  Peggy-Elise."  He 
laid  the  little  bunch  of  violets  beside  her  plate. 
"  These  are  all  I  could  find." 

"  How  did  you  know  I  liked  violets  best !  " 
The  girl  buried  her  face  in  the  tender  blossoms. 

"An      inspiration,      perhaps  —  you      inspire 


PEGGY-ELISE  47 

ine  continually,  you  know,  in  many  ways." 
Lunch  over,  they  strolled  along  the  path  to  a 
little  ravine,  through  which  ran  a  miniature 
stream.  The  sun-flecked  slope  was  inviting. 
Venable  threw  himself  upon  the  grass,  and  lean- 
ing against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  lit  his  pipe. 
Mademoiselle  Lascelles  stretched  herself  lazily 
upon  the  turf  and  lay,  her  eyes  half  closed,  gaz- 
ing down  toward  the  Seine.  Her  features,  in 
repose,  were  intensely  interesting  to  Venable ;  he 
noted  with  satisfaction  the  fine  forehead  under 
its  crown  of  tawny  hair,  the  thin,  sensitive  nos- 
trils, the  high  Gallic  cheekbones,  the  firm,  intelli- 
gent mouth  and  chin.  Mademoiselle  Lascelles 
was  undeniably  a  woman  of  character.  Then, 
as  she  turned  her  full  face  toward  him,  he  real- 
ized what  a  singular  difference  there  was  between 
the  front  view  and  the  profile.  The  former  was 
gay,  almost  childlike,  in  its  youth  and  inno- 
cence; the  latter,  in  repose,  seemed  that  of  a 
saddened  woman.  It  was  a  remarkable  differ- 
ence, and  Venable  was  fascinated  by  it.  The 
girl  presented  to  him  two  distinct  personalities : 
Peggy,  his  buoyant,  delightful  companion  on  this 
care-free  May  day;  and  Elise,  the  sorrowful 
woman  of  the  Verdun  road. 

Impelled  by  some  pagan  note  in  the  spring 
air,  Venable  laid  aside  his  pipe  and  threw  him- 
self upon  the  grass  at  the  girl's  side.  Her  head 


48  PEGGY-ELISE 

rested  upon  her  outstretched  arm,  and  Venable's 
hand,  as  he  lay  beside  her,  touched  her  fingers. 
The  momentary  contact  set  his  brain  whirling. 
Impulsively  he  gripped  her  hand  in  his  own. 

She  ottered  no  resistance.  Her  hand  lay  in 
his,  quite  impassive,  unresponsive.  He  won- 
dered whether  this  curious  child  was  devoid  of 
feeling,  of  passion,  or  whether  she  merely  slept. 

Facing  her,  as  he  now  was,  their  eyes  met  with 
but  a  score  of  inches  between.  In  her  expression 
was  a  suggestion  of  surprise,  as  though  what  she 
saw  in  his  own  had  startled  her.  Venable 
thought  of  kissing  her,  but  something  checked 
him.  He  released  her  slender  fingers,  annoyed. 
Here  was  a  woman  he  did  not  understand  at  all. 

"Are  you  enjoying  our  picnic,  Peggy-Elise?  " 
he  asked  presently. 

"  Yes.  I  am  very  happy.  I  love  the  sun,  and 
the  grass,  and  the  flowers.  In  the  spring,  one 
seems  filled  with  wonderful  dreams.  I  have 
been  dreaming,  monsieur." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  life  —  of  my  own  life,  I  suppose.  When 
one  has  so  little  in  the  past  to  dream  of,  one 
must  of  necessity  dream  of  the  future." 

"  And  that,  with  a  woman,  means  love." 

"Yes  —  perhaps.  Love,  and  —  and  achieve- 
ment. You  see,  monsieur,  as  I  have  told  you 
before,  I  have  ambitions." 


PEGGY-ELISE  49 

"  What  are  they?  "  asked  Venable,  amused. 

The  girl  answered  him  at  once,  without  hesi- 
tation. 

"  To  have  the  love  of  the  man  I  love,  and  to  do, 
successfully,  what  I  am  able  to  do." 

"  And  who  is  the  man  you  love?  " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell  you,  monsieur.  Perhaps  I 
shall  know,  when  the  time  comes/' 

"And  the  work  you  are  able  to  do?  What  is 
that?" 

"  I  hope  to  sing,  monsieur.  It  is  said  that  I 
have  a  voice.  And  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  have 
a  great  teacher,  from  the  beginning  —  Cle"men- 
tine  Simon,  herself,  taught  me  —  she  was  a  dear 
friend  of  my  father,  and  very  kind.  I  had  to 
work  hard  to  satisfy  her  —  she  never  permitted 
a  mistake  to  pass.  It  was  a  wonderful  training, 
monsieur.  Tell  me  —  is  there  not  a  great  oppor- 
tunity for  the  singer,  in  America?  " 

"  Yes  —  and  no,"  Venable  laughed.  "  In 
America,  the  public  is  apt  to  demand  of  artists 
that  they  have  the  foreign  cachet.  For  those 
who  are  unknown,  who  have  not  what  we  call  in 
my  country  a  (  pull,'  it  is  difficult  to  get  ahead." 

"And  what  is  this  'pull'?" 

"  Oh  —  influence  —  some  especial  power  with 
the  management  — " 

"  Money,  perhaps?  " 

"  No.     Not  money,  always.  4  It  is  difficult  to 


50  PEGGY-ELISE 

explain.  But  I  am  afraid  that  if  you  went  there, 
unheralded,  you  would  find  yourself  confronted 
by  a  wall  of  stone." 

"  Oh  —  but  you  must  not  discourage  me.  How 
do  you  expect,  yourself,  to  succeed,  in  your  own 
country?  " 

"  By  first  making  a  success,  here.  By  getting 
my  work  into  the  Salon.  Then  I  shall  go  to 
America,  with  colors  flying." 

"  It  may,  then,  be  a  long  time." 

"  You  are  hardly  encouraging." 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  misunderstand  me.  I  —  I 
meant  something  quite  different." 

"What?"  Venable  demanded,  feeling  that  he 
had  at  last  surprised  the  girl  into  an  admission 
of  some  sort. 

"  I  meant,  monsieur,  that  since  I  am  leaving 
Paris  in  July,  it  may  be  a  long  time  before  I  shall 
see  you  again."  She  spoke  calmly.  Venable 
wondered  whether  beneath  her  calm  there  might 
not  be  more  of  fire  than  he  had  supposed.  It 
pleased  his  vanity  to  think  so. 

"Would  you  regret  that,  Peggy-Elise? " 

"Do  you  not  know?  Have  we  not  been  good 
friends?  In  all  my  life,  monsieur,  I  have  not  so 
enjoyed  the  sunshine  as  I  have  enjoyed  it,  to-day. 
I  have  been  almost  happy,  to-day.  Whether  I 
shall  be  happy  in  America,  I  do  not  know.  My 
aunt  is  not  what  you  would  call  rich,  I  think. 


PEGGY-ELISE  51 

Her  husband,  my  uncle,  is  the  editor  of  a  maga- 
zine. I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  dependent  in  their 
house.  I  must  find  work,  monsieur.  I  shall  be 
lonely,  there,  it  may  be.  So  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you  —  my  friend  —  again." 

She  spoke  with  a  simplicity  that  disarmed  him. 
This  girl  absolutely  refused  to  flirt  with  him. 
Doubtless,  he  thought,  she  would  have  disap- 
pointed him  if  she  had.  Her  cool,  level  honesty 
pleased  him  more,  and  yet  it  left  him  entirely  at 
sea.  Had  Mademoiselle  Lascelles  fallen  in  love 
with  him,  or  did  she,  in  reality,  regard  him  only 
as  a  friend?  Just  why  he  so  greatly  desired  an 
answer  to  this  question,  he  did  not  know.  In 
one  way,  of  course,  he  might  find  out  —  he  could 
ask  her.  But  to  do  that  meant  to  declare  love  on 
his  own  part,  love  that  would  presuppose  mar- 
riage—  and  he  did  not  wish  to  marry.  Yet  to 
suggest  anything  else,  in  spite  of  his  continental 
attitude  toward  life,  seemed  out  of  the  question. 

Pan,  at  his  elbow,  whispered  pagan  thoughts 
in  his  ear.  Why  not  kiss  those  tempting  lips,  so 
short  a  distance  away?  Youth,  after  all,  must 
be  served.  The  determination  had  just  crystal- 
lized in  his  mind,  when  his  companion  rose. 

The  sun  sent  long  purple  shadows  through 
the  woods.  Already  the  valley  of  the  Seine  was 
beginning  to  grow  dark,  wrapped  in  a  murky 
mist.  A  few  lights  shot  through  the  violet  haze. 


52  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Shall  we  return,  monsieur?  "  the  girl  asked, 
smiling  at  him.  "  I  must  see  that  you  get  back 
in  time  for  your  dinner." 

"  Not  my  dinner.  Ours,"  he  said.  "  Remem- 
ber, you  promised  to  dine  with  me,  to-day." 

"  I  should  love  to,"  she  told  him  gaily. 
"  Somewhere  with  music  and  many  lights." 

"  Would  you  not  prefer  to  remain  here,  under 
the  stars?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ah,  yes,  monsieur.  That,  too,  I  should  love. 
But  not  to-night." 

"Why  not  to-night?"  He  rose  and  stood 
close  to  her,  so  close  that  the  odor  of  the  little 
bunch  of  violets  at  her  waist  ascended  faintly  to 
his  nostrils.  "  Why  not  to-night?  "  He  reached 
out,  encircling  her  shoulders  with  his  arms. 
"  What  night  could  be  more  made  for  love?  " 

She  faced  him  fearlessly. 

"  The  night  is  perfect,  monsieur.  It  is  we,  who 
are  a  little  out  of  tune."  She  laid  her  hands 
gently  upon  his  restraining  arms.  "  Monsieur," 
she  said,  simply,  "it  is  not  the  giving  that 
troubles  those  who  love  —  it  is  the  knowing  when 
to  give."  Gently,  she  pressed  his  arms  down- 
ward, releasing  herself. 

A  wave  of  annoyance  swept  over  Venable. 
His  gay  companions  at  the  cafe,  had  they  known, 
would  have  composed  ribald  verses  at  his  ex- 
pense, deriding  the  lack  of  courage  of  the  youth 


,  PEGGY-ELISE  53 

who  took  a  jeune  fille  Maying,  and,  with  his  arms 
about  her,  feared  to  kiss  her.  They  always 
kissed  the  girls  who  went  to  gather  spring  flow- 
ers with  them ;  it  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  day 
as  the  luncheon,  the  wine.  And  yet,  Venable, 
with  Mademoiselle  Lascelles'  gray  eyes  looking 
into  his,  could  no  more  have  kissed  her  than  he 
could  have  tossed  her  over  the  edge  of  the  hill. 
He  picked  up  the  lunch  basket,  and  together 
they  made  their  way  down  the  road  to  the  little 
landing. 

A  strained  silence  lay  between  them  on  the 
journey  back  to  the  city.  Venable  tried  to  bridge 
it  by  talking  of  his  work,  but  his  companion  gave 
him  scant  help.  It  was  not  that  she  appeared  to 
be  in  any  way  displeased  with  him ;  he  felt  that 
there  had  been  no  occasion  for  that,  but  she 
seemed  depressed. 

Venable  had  intended  to  take  her  to  dinner  at 
the  cafe"  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  Arm- 
strong, the  old  English  painter,  would  be  there, 
and  little  Bosquet,  the  one-armed  poet,  and  Ver- 
net  of  the  Revue.  He  had  told  them  of  his  amaz- 
ing new  model,  and  had  thought  it  would  be 
agreeable  to  exhibit  her  to  these  boon  com- 
panions for  their  approval.  Yet,  somehow,  now 
that  the  hour  approached,  he  felt  a  certain  un- 
easiness. He  decided  a  dozen  times,  during  the 
boat  ride,  to  carry  out  his  plan,  but  his  mind 


54  PEGGY-ELISE 

wavered.  He  had  told  his  friends  that  he  would 
bring  her.  They  would  be  awaiting  him,  eager, 
expectant.  He  would  achieve  a  little  triumph, 
he  knew.  None  of  the  women  about  whom  they 
wrote  extravagant  verses  could  compare  with 
Peggy-Elise.  Yet,  when  they  reached  the  Pont 
Neuf,  and  managed  to  find  a  cab,  he  ordered  the 
old  man  who  drove  it  to  take  them  to  the  Am- 
bassadeurs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DURING  all  his  career,  Venable  had  never 
worked  with  so  sure  a  hand  as  now.  In 
part  this  was  due  to  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
the  successful  pose  had  filled  him.  He  knew 
that  his  work  was  good ;  he  hoped  that  it  might 
even  be  great,  and  secretly  believed  that  it  would 
be.  An  additional  reason  lay  in  the  inspiration 
he  derived  from  the  presence  of  Mademoiselle 
Lascelles.  With  the  usual  model,  he  would  not 
have  experienced  any  such  feeling;  with  Peggy  - 
Elise,  he  drove  ahead,  with  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  creating  this  thing  of  beauty,  together; 
that  she,  no  less  than  he,  was  putting  into  it  her 
personality.  He  began  to  understand,  better, 
the  stories  of  the  Quarter,  in  which  this,  that,  or 
the  other  successful  artist  was  held  to  owe  his 
most  significant  triumph  to  the  influence  of  some 
woman.  There  were  many  such  tales  —  some 
true,  some  palpably  apocryphal.  At  least, 
Venable  thought,  the  model  must  be  more  than  a 
lay  figure,  if  results  out  of  the  ordinary  were  to 
be  obtained. 

During  these  weeks  he  found  himself  no  nearer 
a  solution  of  the  problem  presented  by  Peggy- 

55 


56  PEGGY-ELISE 

Elise  than  he  had  been  on  the  first  day  of  their 
acquaintance.  The  girl  might  lay  hare  her  body, 
but  her  soul  she  hid  from  him  behind  an  impene- 
trable veil.  What  she  thought,  he  came  gradu- 
ally to  know;  what  she  felt,  he  remained  ignorant 
of;  his  efforts  to  force  from  her  some  expression 
of  her  feelings  met  with  unvarying  failure. 

Had  she  come  to  love  him?  His  masculine 
vanity,  eked  out  by  various  little  evidences  on 
her  part  of  a  constant  thought  of  him,  his  wishes, 
his  needs,  made  him  at  times  certain  that  she 
had.  A  moment  later,  with  baffling  subtlety,  she 
eluded  him,  confronting  him  in  the  guise  of  a 
sincere  friend. 

She  had  asked  him,  on  one  occasion,  why  he 
had  not  married.  The  question  served  him  as  a 
text  upon  which  to  deliver  an  elaborate  disser- 
tation concerning  the  folly  of  marriage  on  the 
part  of  those  engaged  in  creative  work. 

"  I  have  time,  energy,  love,  for  but  one  thing  — 
my  art,"  he  had  announced,  rather  grandilo- 
quently. "  She  is  a  stern  mistress,  demanding 
all  my  efforts.  Later  on,  perhaps,  when  I  have 
made  my  success,  I  might  consider  marriage,  but 
why  should  I  do  so,  now?  Think  of  being  tied, 
interminably,  to  some  one  whom  I  should  forever 
be  obliged  to  please,  to  consider,  to  entertain. 
There  is  but  one  purpose  in  marriage  —  children. 
I  feel  no  need  for  them.  Suppose  I  had  a  wife,  a 


PEGGY-ELISE  57 

family.  I  should  require  larger  quarters,  a 
costly  establishment,  my  movements  would  be 
hampered,  I  should  be  compelled  to  fritter  away 
at  least  half  my  time  and  energy  upon  trifles,  to 
the  destruction  of  my  ambitions  as  an  artist. 
And  since  the  expense  would  be  so  great,  I 
should  no  doubt  be  forced  to  do  a  vast  amount 
of  work  of  which  I  should  be  ashamed." 

Peggy-Elise  regarded  him  with  an  inscrutable 
smile.  She  seemed  impressed  by  what  he  had 
said,  but  she  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"  Don't  you  agree  with  me?  "  Venable  asked. 

"  Ah !  monsieur," —  she  raised  her  hand  in  a 
little  gesture  of  appeal  — "  do  not  let  us  be  so 
serious!  You  will  spoil  my  humor.  To-day,  I 
feel  gay  —  almost  happy." 

"Why  '  almost'?" 

"  Because  I  have  saved  almost  three  hundred 
francs,"  the  girl  replied  merrily. 

The  remark  was  one  of  many  that  caused 
Venable  gradually  to  reach  the  conclusion  that 
Peggy-Elise  was  perhaps  a  bit  shallow,  material. 
He  had  supposed  she  was  going  to  attribute  her 
happiness  of  the  day  to  a  delightful  little  lunch- 
eon they  had  had  together  at  a  near-by  brasserie. 
Venable  was  nothing,  if  not  vain.  It  annoyed 
him  that  his  continual  efforts  to  impress  the 
girl  with  his  admiration  for  her,  left  her  cold. 
Never  had  he  felt  that  she  wanted  him  to  take 


58  PEGGY-ELISE 

her  in  his  arms,  to  kiss  her.  It  piqued  his  vanity. 
By  all  the  rules  of  the  game,  she  should  have 
desired  it.  Her  liking  for  him  was  palpable 
enough.  She  rarely  appeared,  in  the  morning, 
without  bringing  him  a  few  flowers,  a  bouton- 
nicrc  of  violets  or  pansies.  She  seemed  espe- 
cially solicitous  about  his  creatural  comforts, 
insisted  on  filling  his  pipe  for  him,  when  his 
hands  were  wet  with  the  moist  clay,  had  even 
explored  the  mysteries  of  his  wardrobe  —  mend- 
ing, darning,  and  sewing  on  innumerable  buttons. 
After  luncheon,  which  they  frequently  had  in  the 
studio,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  going  out  for  a 
short  walk.  On  his  return,  he  invariably  found 
that  Peggy-Elise  had  put  the  place  to  rights,  had 
swept,  dusted,  and  garnished  it  until  it  fairly 
shone.  His  tools  were  always  clean  and  in  order, 
his  papers  neatly  arranged,  his  breakfast  dishes 
washed  and  put  away.  She  explained  these  ac- 
tivities on  the  ground  that  she  hated  to  be  idle, 
which  was  true.  She  had  the  keen  instinct  of  the 
Frenchwoman  for  order  and  economy.  No  won- 
der, Venable  thought,  her  father  had  depended 
upon  her. 

Apart  from  the  studio,  he  knew  little  of  her 
life.  The  small  apartment  she  had  shared  with 
her  father  had  long  ago  been  given  up,  together 
with  the  few  articles  of  furniture  it  had  con- 
tained. She  now  occupied  a  tiny  room  near  the 


PEGGY-ELISE  59 

Place  de  la  Republique,  and  made  the  long  jour- 
ney between  it  and  the  studio,  on  foot,  each 
morning  and  evening.  Venable  had  found  diffi- 
culty in  inducing  her  to  dine  with  him.  Only  on 
Sundays  would  she  do  so,  and  then  but  seldom. 
Their  first  dinner,  at  the  Cafe  des  Ambassadeurs, 
had  been  rather  a  grand  affair ;  but  Peggy-Elise, 
at  sight  Of  the  officers  —  French,  Belgian,  Eng- 
lish —  who  sat  all  about  them,  had  been  reminded 
too  poignantly  of  her  father.  She  preferred 
much  simpler  fare,  she  said,  and  refused  to  ac- 
company him  again  to  one  of  the  big  restaurants. 
To  his  own  favorite  dining  place,  Yenable  would 
not  take  her,  although  she  had  asked  him  to  do 
so.  His  failure  to  appear  with  his  beautiful 
model,  on  that  first  Sunday  night,  had  aroused  a 
deal  of  curiosity  on  the  part  of  his  friends;  but 
Venable  decided  that  he  did  not  want  any  of 
these  men  to  meet  Peggy-Elise  —  they  might  not 
understand  her.  So  he  spoke  of  her  but  seldom, 
and  pretended  that  she  quite  failed  to  interest 
him,  except  in  a  professional  way. 

One  day,  early  in  July,  Venable  threw  down 
liis  tools  with  an  exclamation  of  relief.  For  a 
long  time  he  stood  staring  at  the  statue. 

Peggy-Elise,  with  an  expression  singularly  like 
his  own,  stood  staring  at  him. 

Because  "of  the  heat,  he  had   taken  off   his 


60  PEGGY-ELISE 

smock,  and  stood  in  thin  white  shirt,  open  at  the 
neck,  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up  above  his  elbows. 
His  skin  was  olive-brown  and  very  smooth,  his 
arms  muscular,  full  of  nervous  strength.  His 
features  were  in  profile,  his  chin  carried  with  a 
characteristic  upward  tilt  that  always  made 
Peggy-Elise  think  of  the  head  of  an  Arab.  Ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation  of  his  work,  he  remained 
quite  unaware  of  her  scrutiny ;  she  concluded,  as 
she  had  many  times  concluded  before,  that  Gil- 
bert Venable  was  the  handsomest  man  she  had 
ever  seen. 

There  was  a  certain  brown  quality  about  him 
that  fascinated  her.  The  clear  tan  of  his  skin 
seemed  intensified  manyfold  in  his  eyes  and  hair. 
And  his  voice,  too,  held  this  warm  note.  She 
loved  to  hear  him  talk.  She  gazed  hungrily  at 
him,  now,  fearing  the  words  she  felt  he  was  about 
to  say. 

Suddenly,  he  turned  from  the  statue,  and  met 
her  glance  with  a  smile. 

"It's  done,  Peggy-Elise,"  he  said.  "If  I 
touch  it  again  I  shall  spoil  it." 

The  girl  stepped  from  the  model  stand  and 
wrapped  herself  in  her  kimono.  Then  she  joined 
him  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Venable  ob- 
served that  she  moved  with  a  certain  listlessness, 
as  though  the  heat,  the  long  hours  in  one  position, 


PEGGY-ELISE  61 

had  tired  her.  A  moment  later,  they  both  faced 
the  completed  statue. 

It  was  of  life  size,  a  superbly  executed  piece  of 
work.  Tke  daring,  almost  defiant,  loveliness  of 
the  pose,  the  cynical  yet  alluring  smile,  the  splen- 
did modeling  of  the  torso  and  limbs,  gave  to  the 
work  the  quality  of  greatness.  Venable,  too,  felt 
this.  He  had  not  the  least  doubt  concerning  its 
reception  by  the  critics. 

"Do  I  really  look  like  that?"  Peggy-Elise 
asked  at  length. 

"  Well,"  Venable  smiled  at  her,  "  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  is  different,  of  course.  You  cer- 
tainly have  not  that  cynical  smile.  And  I  have 
made  the  figure  a  trifle  heavier,  more  mature. 
Phryne,  at  this  time,  must  have  been  a  woman 
of  thirty,  at  least." 

"  I  hope  I  never  shall  have  a  smile  like  that," 
Peggy-Elise  said  with  a  little  shudder.  "  It  re- 
minds me,  in  a  way,  of  the  Mona  Lisa.  It  is  won- 
derful, of  course,  but  it  is  n't  —  nice." 

"  Neither  was  her  profession,"  Venable  re- 
marked. "  Women  get  to  look  that  way,  who 
sell  themselves.  So  you  like  the  thing,  do  you?  " 

"  Like  it !  Why  —  it  is  amazing  —  superb.  I 
hope  you  will  get  a  gold  medal,  and  I  am  sure  you 
will."' 

"  I  hope  so."     He  turned  toward  his  compan- 


62  PEGGY-ELISE 

ion,  gazing  at  her  with  a  look  of  regret.  "  Our 
work,  together,  is  over,  Peggy-Elise." 

"Yes."  She  breathed  the  word,  rather  than 
spoke  it,  and  the  listlessness  which  Venable  had 
before  observed  seemed  more  apparent.  She 
leaned  against  the  back  of  a  chair,  as  though  to 
support  herself.  "  It  has  been  very  wonderful, 
to  be  here  with  you,  all  these  days.  I  had  not 
thought,  at  first,  that  it  would  be  so  —  so  easy 
for  me.  I  am  sorry  that  it  is  over." 

"  Need  it  be  over?  "  Venable  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing impulsively  to  her.  "  Why  should  you  go? 
Why  not  stay  here  —  always?" 

Peggy-Elise  shook  her  head. 

"  Alas,  monsieur,"  she  replied,  with  a  trace  of 
bitterness,  "  I  am  not  ambitious  to  acquire  the 
smile  of  the  Phryne." 

Venable  stopped,  regarding  her  angrily. 

"Why  do  you  assume  that  I  mean  that? 
Have  I  ever  suggested  such  a  thing?  " 

"  You  have  told  me  many  times,  mon  ami,  that 
marriage  is  not. for  the  artist.  In  what  other 
way  could  I  reihain  here  —  always?  "  Her  eyes 
met  his,  gravely  disconcerting. 

"  I  merely  gave  expression  to  a  sincere  wish. 
I  said  what  I  did,  because  I  felt  it,  and  meant  it. 
I  thought  nothing  of  how  or  why.  I  realized 
only  that  you  are  going  to  leave  me,  and  that  I 
do  not  want  you  to  go.  I  shall  miss  you  very, 


PEGGY-ELISE  63 

very  much.     I  wish   that  you  would  remain." 

Peggy-Elise,  when  he  began  to  speak,  swayed 
almost  imperceptibly  toward  him,  and  her  hands 
fluttered  forward  in  a  manner  of  appeal  not  un- 
like that  of  the  statue  itself.  She  hung  on  his 
words  as  though  awaiting  some  irrevocable  sen- 
tence. 

"  I  also,  monsieur,"  she  whispered,  "  shall  re- 
gret." 

He  interrupted  her,  crushing  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said,  his  voice  harsh  with  feel- 
ing. "Don't  go! " 

For  a  moment,  the  girl  seemed  about  to  yield. 
Then  she  tore  her  hands  away,  and  beat  back  his 
passionate  attempts  to  embrace  her.  He  saw, 
with  astonishment,  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 

"  Peggy !  "  he  muttered,  "  Peggy-Elise !  " 

She  interrupted  him  quickly,  savagely.  It  was 
the  first  time,  since  they  had  met,  that  her  feel- 
ings had  mastered  her. 

"  Mon  Dieu!"  she  gasped,  staring  at  him. 
"  Am  I  then  a  fool?  Do  not  touch  me,  monsieur, 
I  beg  of  you."  She  turned  and  went  swiftly 
toward  the  recess  behind  the  screen. 

Venable  made  no  effort  to  detain  her.  He  was 
angry  with  himself,  with  her.  He  affected  no  ab- 
stract standards  of  morality.  If  Peggy-Elise, 
loving  him,  had  decided  to  merge  her  life  in  his, 


64  PEGGY-ELISE 

he  would  have  accepted  her  sacrifice  readily. 
Such  arrangements  were  common  enough,  not 
alone  among  the  lesser  lights  of  the  studios,  but 
among  the  famous  ones  of  the  earth  —  the  men 
and  women  who  had  achieved.  Love  would  have 
been  a  sufficient  justification  for  their  life  to- 
gether, and  he  believed  that  he  loved  her. 

Now  it  appeared,  because  he  had  been  honest, 
frank,  because  he  had  said  what  was  in  his  heart, 
he  had  roused  this  girl's  anger.  What  right  had 
she  to  put  him  in  this  position?  Venable  failed 
to  realize  that  Peggy-Elise's  anger  was  directed 
far  more  against  herself  than  against  him.  She 
despised  weakness  in  others,  and  had  suddenly 
discovered  it  in  herself.  Venable,  sulking 
angrily,  concluded  that  she  was  merely  a  com- 
monplace, conventional  girl,  pretending  the  usual 
and  conventional  indignation.  He  lit  his  pipe 
and,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  sat  glowering 
at  the  beautiful  figure  of  her  he  had  created. 

Presently  he  heard  her  moving  near  him;  he 
knew  that  she  had  come  from  behind  the  screen, 
and  was  putting  on  her  hat,  yet  he  did  not  turn. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "  I  have  made  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  for  my  passage.  I  am  sailing 
on  La  Patrie,  next  Tuesday.  I  have  already 
written  to  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Austen.  I  am 
sorry  — "  She  hesitated. 

Venable  turned  and  faced  her. 


PEGGY-ELISE  65 

"  Peggy-Elise,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  angry  with 
me?" 

"  Oh,  no  —  no !  Surely  you  must  understand. 
How  could  I  be  angry  with  you?  " 

"  Dear,"  he  rose  and  went  up  to  her,  a  sudden 
determination  flaming  in  his  mind.  "  Will  you 
stay,  little  Peggy-Elise,  if  we  are  married?  " 

She  held  the  edge  of  the  table  for  support. 
Her  eyes  were  strangely  bright. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  You  —  you  won't?  "  Venable  cried.  "  Why 
not?  Don't  you  love  me?  " 

"  That,  monsieur,  if  I  did,  would  be  the  best 
of  reasons  not  to  marry  you." 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"  Not  now,  my  friend.  I  am  very  tired.  I 
must  go  home." 

"  Will  you  return,  to-morrow?  " 

"  No,  monsieur.  Not  to-morrow.  I  am  going 
away,  to-morrow.  On  Monday  I  shall  return." 

"  But  —  where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  St.  Menehould,  Gilbert  —  to  the  grave  of 
my  father.  I  am  leaving  France  for  a  long  time 
—  perhaps  forever  —  one  never  knows.  ...  I 
cannot  go,  without  first  making  that  little  devo- 
tion. No,"  she  divined  what  he  was  about  to 
say,  "  I  prefer  to  go  alone.  I  will  come,  on  Mon- 
day, to  see  you.  Until  then,  good-by." 

He  stood  staring  at  the  door,  long  after  she 
had  gone. 


CHAPTER  V 

V ENABLE,  his  work  for  the  time  being  com- 
pleted, spent  the  greater  part  of  the  next 
two  days  thinking  of  Peggy-Elise. 

Singularly  enough,  he  analyzed  her  as  a  woman 
without  passion,  a  creature  well-nigh  as  cold 
as  the  clay  figure  he  had  made  of  her.  The  con- 
clusion was  scarcely  a  tribute  to  his  intelligence, 
although  it  was  a  very  great  tribute  to  Peggy - 
Elise's  power  of  self-control.  The  girl,  all 
flame,  all  fire,  at  least  where  he  was  concerned, 
had  hidden  her  emotions  beneath  a  mask;  she 
uttered  commonplaces,  not  daring  to  let  him 
know  that  she  adored  him.  Such  knowledge,  on 
his  part,  might  prove  far  too  dangerous  —  for 
her.  She  was  waging  a  bitter  fight  with  her- 
self. At  times,  she  feared  that  she -would  not 
win ;  were  she  to  permit  his  strength  to  be  added 
to  the  forces  against  her,  she  was  certain  she 
would  not. 

She  had  determined  «to  go  away,  to  leave 
France  and  Venable  —  the  two  things  she  most 
loved.  The  alternative,  to  stay,  meant  exactly 
what  Venable  had  said :  love,  perhaps ;  happiness 
of  a  sort,  perhaps;  and  ultimately  disillusion- 

66 


PEGGY-ELISE  67 

ment  —  and  the  Mona  Lisa  smile.  She  knew  she 
could  not  marry  Venable  as 'long  as  he  was  con- 
vinced that  marriage  would  ruin  his  career.  Be- 
sides, she  felt  that  he  did  not  love  her.  His  of- 
fer of  marriage  had  been  forced,  half-hearted. 
Had  he  really  loved  her,  she  said  to  herself,  he 
would  have  swept  her  into  his  arms  and  held 
her  there  for  all  time,  in  spite  of  herself,  himself, 
or  his  career. 

She  made  her  way,  almost  unseeing,  from  Ven- 
able's  studio  to  her  room,  tugging  against  the  de- 
sire to  return  to  him,  to  cast  herself  into  his 
arms,  as  she  might  have  tugged  against  an  ever- 
tightening  cord.  Once  or  twice  it  actually 
turned  her  back,  but  she  thought  of  her  father  — 
facing  a  thousand  deaths  across  the  breech  of  his 
machine  gun,  of  his  scorn,  always,  for  falterers 
—  and  went  resolutely  on. 

There  was  little  enough  in  her  room  among 
the  chimney-pots  to  welcome  her.  The  gay  row 
of  flowers  in  the  window  nodded  in  a  friendly 
way,  but  she  scarcely  noticed  them.  After  stand- 
ing, for  a  long  time,  regarding  her  somber  eyes 
in  the  mirror,  she  tossed  her  hat  upon  the  bed 
and  seated  herself  beside  it.  Three  things  she 
drew  from  her  small  leather  handbag.  One  was 
an  envelope,  containing  the  ticket  for  her  pas- 
sage to  America,  and  a  few  banknotes  —  the  re- 
mainder of  her  savings.  The  second  was  a  card- 


68  PEGGY-ELISE 

board  box,  in  which  lay  her  father's  decoration, 
the  Croix  de  Guerre.  The  third  was  a  thin  sil- 
ver locket,  not  larger  than  a  two-franc  piece. 
She  opened  this,  and  regarded,  tenderly,  the 
three  or  four  faded  violets  it  contained.  They 
were  souvenirs  of  her  first  day  with  Venable,  at 
St.  Cloud.  In  a  way,  the  three  articles  before 
her  represented  three  phases  of  her  existence: 
the  past  lay  with  her  father,  in  his  lonely  grave 
at  St.  Menehould ;  the  violets  typified  the  present ; 
the  passage  to  America,  the  future.  She  sighed, 
as  she  closed  the  locket;  and  replaced  it,  along 
with  the  other  things,  in  her  satchel.  The  past, 
she  would  say  good-by  to,  to-morrow.  To  the 
present,  also,  she  must  soon  bid  farewell.  Only 
the  future,  veiled  in  mystery,  was  left  to  her. 
What  destiny  lay  beyond  the  curving  rim  of  the 
sea?  She  did  not  concern  herself  greatly  with 
it;  the  present  was  too  poignantly  sweet,  the 
prospect  of  leaving  it,  too  bitter,  to  allow  much 
room  in  her  thoughts  for  other  things.  All  that 
the  passing  moments  said  to  her  might  have  been 
compressed  into  half  a  dozen  words  — "  I  am 
leaving  him  forever  —  forever."  And  she  might 
so  readily  stay.  Love  beckoned  with  kindly  eyes. 
What  mattered  the  future,  in  either  this  world 
or  the  next?  Love  was  free,  untrameled.  The 
laws  of  society  were  daily  being  broken  by  the 
highest.  War  had  ruthlessly  swept  aside  man's 


PEGGY-ELISE  69 

petty  conventions,  left  humanity  wondering 
whether  any  God  really  existed,  at  all,  save  the 
god  of  force.  Why  should  she  sacrifice  herself, 
her  happiness,  for  the  sake  of  an  ideal?  Why 
should  she?  —  her  fingers  touched  the  little  box 
containing  her  father's  decoration.  Why  had  he 
sacrificed  himself  for  an  ideal  —  he  and  the  other 
tens  of  thousands  whose  blood-offering  had  been 
for  humanity?  She  began  to  understand.  That 
was  the  meaning  of  life  —  of  it  all  —  to  live  and 
die  for  an  ideal.  She  must  do  that,  too,  and 
help  Venable  to  do  it,  if  not  in  the  trenches,  in 
the  rut  and  groove  of  every-day  life.  She  was 
glad,  supremely  glad,  that  she  had  had  the  cour- 
age to  leave  him,  to-day ;  that  to-morrow,  she  was 
going  to  St.  Menehould.  It  seemed  a  useless 
thing,  from  a  purely  material  standpoint,  to  go  so 
far  just  to  stand  beside  that  narrow  mound  of 
earth;  it  could  scarcely  bring  her  father  nearer 
to  her,  since  she  held  the  vivid  memory  of  all 
their  years  together  in  her  heart,  yet  she  knew 
that  she  would  bring  back  with  her  from  that 
pilgrimage  courage,  strength,  a  new  understand- 
ing of  the  age-old  lesson  of  life  —  duty  —  as  he 
had  done  his,  as  his  comrades  were  doing  theirs, 
as  she,  indeed,  must  do  hers. 

The  morning  was  rainy,  almost  cold,  as  had 
been  the  day  upon  which  she  and  Venable  had 
first  met.  Her  journey  was  uneventful.  The 


70  PEGGY-ELISE 

railway  line  seemed  less  congested  than  on  the 
occasion  of  her  former  visit;  she  knew  that  the 
most  desperate  fighting  was  now  g  nng  on  along 
the  line  of  the  Somme.  She  observed  no  cessa- 
tion, however,  in  the  steady  flow  of  the  Red 
Cross  ambulances  to  and  from  the  hospital  at 
St.  Menehould;  and  the  little  graveyard,  she  soon 
saw,  had  stalked  grimly  up  a  slope  and  down 
again,  and  was  no  longer  little. 

From  Paris  she  had  brought  all  her  potted 
plants,  the  moist  earth  about  their  roots  wrapped 
in  many  thicknesses  of  paper.  A  little  trowel, 
with  which  she  had  provided  herself,  enabled  her 
to  plant  them ;  they  struggled  bravely  to  hold  up 
their  flowered  heads  in  the  rain.  Some  one, 
since  her  previous  visit,  had  placed  a  flat  cross 
at  the  head  of  the  grave,  with  her  father's  name 
and  rank  neatly  cut  upon  it.  There  were  similar 
crosses  at  the  other  graves  near  by,  some  smaller, 
some  larger.  She  knelt  in  the  rain  and  prayed, 
for  her  father,  for  herself,  that  she  might  have 
strength  to  do  her  duty,  always,  as  he  had  done 
his;  for  Venable,  too,  that  he  might  be  happy, 
and  succeed  in  his  career.  A  childish  prayer, 
perhaps,  yet  of  value  in  its  attitude  toward  life 
and  its  problems.  She  rose,  presently,  awk- 
wardly conscious  of  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  of 
a  figure  in  black,  standing,  with  bared  head,  be- 
side her  in  the  rain.  It  was  a  priest.  Beneath 


PEGGY-ELISE  71 

one  arm  he  clutched  two  newly  made  wooden 
crosses  and  a  spade.  Peggy-Elise  knew,  now, 
who  had  placed  the  one  at  the  head  of  the  grave 
before  her. 

"  Your  father,  my  child?  "  queried  the  priest 
gravely,  resuming  his  hat. 

"  Oui,  mon  Pere"  She  regarded  him  timidly. 
Captain  Lascelles  had  not  been  a  religious  man, 
in  the  accepted  sense,  and  had  raised  his  daugh- 
ter to  regard  the  universe  as  her  church. 

The  old  man  touched  her  lightly  on  the  head. 

"  The  good  God  will  not  forget  any  of  His 
children,"  he  said,  simply.  "  I,  who  am  but  a 
feeble  old  man,  have  not  forgotten  the  dead," — 
he  extended  his  arm  toward  the  serried  rows  of 
graves  — "  how  much  more,  then,  will  He,  in  His 
divine  mercy,  remember  the  living."  He  turned 
and  made  his  way  slowly  across  the  slope,  heed- 
less of  the  rain. 

Peggy-Elise  looked  after  him  for  many  mo- 
ments, a  feeling  of  exultation  swelling  in  her 
soul.  In  spite  of  her  prayers,  the  thought  of  a 
supreme  being,  intimately  conscious  of  her  exist- 
ence, solicitous  for  her  individual  welfare,  had 
not  greatly  appealed  to  her  heretofore.  Yet  the 
old  priest's  smile  had  touched  her  imagination 
vividly.  He,  recording  earthly  immortality  for 
his  thousands  —  a  divine  Father,  giving  spiritual 
immortality  to  his  millions.  She  made  her  way 


72  PEGGY-ELISE 

to  the  railway  station  and  waited,  patiently,  for 
the  train  that  would  take  her  back  to  Paris. 

On  Monday,  when  she  again  saw  Venable,  she 
felt  better  prepared  to  meet  the  protests  that 
she  instinctively  felt  he  would  make  against  her 
going.  She  came  to  him,  early,  her  eyes  shining, 
her  face  unnaturally  pale  against  the  black  of  her 
dress.  It  had  been  hard,  not  to  see  him,  for  these 
two  days;  she  scarcely  realized  how  hard,  until 
she  found  herself  trembling  with  excitement  at 
his  door.  For  a  sickening  moment,  she  thought 
of  the  time  when  she  could  no  longer  come  to 
him,  when  she  could  not  see  his  face,  hear  his 
voice,  revel  in  his  nearness  to  her.  She  feared 
her  courage  would  fail  her;  then  she  thought  of 
the  grave  beneath  the  dripping  aspens,  the  kindly 
face  of  the  old  priest,  and,  throwing  back  her 
shoulders,  she  tapped  at  the  studio  door. 

Venable  received  her  with  an  enthusiasm  that 
was  quite  unassumed.  He,  too,  had  found  the 
days  of  her  absence  without  savor.  Seeing  her 
daily,  talking  with  her,  he  had  unconsciously 
made  her  a  part  of  his  life.  Only  through  her 
absence  did  he  realize  how  vital  a  part  of  it  she 
had  become.  He  had  already  planned  a  new 
piece  of  work,  a  Victory,  in  anticipation  of  the 
day  when  the  legions  of  the  republic  would 
march,  triumphant,  along  the  Champs  Elysees. 
Peggy-Elise  should  be  his  model.  Her  departure 


PEGGY-ELISE  73 

for  America  could  be  indefinitely  postponed. 
He  was  full  of  the  project,  and  spoke  to  her  of  it 
at  once. 

The  girl  listened,  fired  by  his  eager  enthusiasm, 
but  when  he  had  finished  she  gravely  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  have  decided  to  go,  to-morrow,"  she  told 
him. 

"But  —  why?  Peggy-Elise,  I  —  I  can't  do 
anything  without  you.  Don't  you  remember  how 
it  was,  when  you  first  came?  I  was  helpless  — 
without  inspiration.  You  gave  it  to  me.  With- 
out you,  the  Phryne  would  never  have  been  done. 
Now  I  want  you  for  this  new  thing  — " 

"  I  must  go,"  she  repeated. 

"  No !  "  He  came  up  to  her,  taking  her  hands 
quickly  in  his.  "  I  need  you,  dear.  I  have  asked 
you  to  marry  me  —  what  more  can  I  do?  " 

"You  have  your  art  —  your  career,"  she  re- 
plied. "  Be  true  to  them  —  they  need  your  best." 

"Can't  you  forget  all  that  nonsense  — ?  " 

"  It  is  not  nonsense,  my  friend, —  it  is  your 
creed.  If  we  were  to  marry,  you  would  be  happy 

—  glad,  this  year,  the  next,  but  after  that  — 
Oh  —  you  have  told  me  so,  often  enough  —  how 
it  would  be.     Nothing  can  change  it,  now." 

"  Then,  just  stay  and  be  my  model  — my  friend 

—  the  way  you  have  been.     Please  do,  dear.     I 
want  you,  I  need  you  —  so  much."     He  dropped 


74  PEGGY-ELISE 

her  hands,  and  flung  his  arms  about  her,  crush- 
ing her  body  against  his  in  a  passionate  embrace. 
"  I  love  you,  my  little  Peggy-Elise,"  he  whis- 
pered, his  lips  against  her  own.  "  I  love  you. 
Don't  go  away  from  me.  I  can't  bear  it." 

Quite  suddenly  Peggy-Elise  understood  that 
what  Venable  felt  for  her  was  not  love  but  pas- 
sion. She  knew  very  certainly  that  she  loved 
Venable  as  deeply  when  away  from  him,  as  now 
in  his  arms;  that  he  did  the  same,  she  gravely 
doubted.  And  while  the  blood  mounted  riot- 
ously to  her  brain,  under  the  spur  of  his  kisses, 
there  came  to  her,  also,  a  little  shiver  of  fear, 
an  impulse  to  protect  herself  —  not  her  body, 
perhaps,  but  her  soul.  She  would  have  given 
herself  to  him  readily  enough,  on  the  instant, 
had  her  emotions  been  paramount ;  but  something 
bigger  than  her  emotions,  something  beyond  them 
—  the  voice  of  her  love,  itself,  perhaps  —  warned 
her  that  it  would  be  drowned  in  a  sea  of  pas- 
sion—  that  to  preserve  it  she  must  deny  this 
surging  desire.  She  flung  herself,  panting,  from 
his  arms. 

"  Wait,  Gilbert !  "  she  gasped.  "  Listen  to  me, 
please.  It  is  not  because  of  the  conventions  that 
I  refuse  you.  I  could  not  love  you  more  were  I 
married  to  you,  nor  could  I  give  you  more  than 
I  would  give  you,  now.  You  want  me  here  with 
you  because  it  will  make  you  happier  to  have  me, 


PEGGY-ELISE  75 

because  I  inspire  you  in  your  work,  because  you 
will  be  lonely  without  me  —  but  those  are  only 
selfish  thoughts,  my  dear.  I  think  you  do  not 
know  what  love  is."  She  put  his  searching  arms 
aside.  "  Do  not  make  it  harder  for  me  than  it  is. 
I  am  going  to  America,  to-morrow." 

His  further  efforts  to  alter  her  decision  left 
her  cold,  and  produced  in  him  a  feeling  of  almost 
childish  irritation.  He  had,  all  his  life,  been  in 
the  habit  of  getting  what  he  wanted ;  just  now  he 
wanted  Peggy-Elise,  and  it  annoyed  him  that  he 
must  see  her  pass  out  of  his  life.  Despite  the 
fact  that  he  had  told  himself,  a  hundred  times, 
during  her  absence,  that  marriage  for  him,  at 
this  time,  would  be  a  false  step,  he  now,  under 
the  spell  of  her  presence,  felt  convinced  that  she 
was  essential  to  his  happiness,  and  that  her  re- 
fusal to  recognize  the  sincerity  of  his  love  was 
due  to  her  coldness,  her  own  lack  of  feeling. 

They  parted  rather  abruptly,  at  the  luncheon 
hour.  Venable  begged  her  to  accompany  him, 
but  she  steadily  refused,  pleading  numerous  en- 
gagements during  the  remainder  of  the  day.  She 
was  to  leave  Paris,  by  train,  in  the  early  evening, 
and  the  best  that  Venable  could  obtain  was  her 
permission  to  see  her  off  at  the  railway  station. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  sat  down  and  reflected, 
over  many  cigarettes,  upon  the  girl's  coldness. 
Had  he  seen  her,  in  her  room,  a  little  later,  he 


76  PEGGY-ELISE 

might  have  revised  his  opinion  of  her.  Poor 
child,  she  had  no  engagements,  during  the  after- 
noon, but  she  feared  to  remain  with  him  longer; 
as  it  was,  the  mere  nearness  of  him  had  sadly 
shaken  the  resolutions  of  the  day  before.  A  few 
hours  more,  and  she  might  have  thrown  her  arms 
about  him,  as  she  had  longed  to  do  every  moment 
of  the  day,  and  begged  him  to  keep  her  with  him 
always. 

The  tears,  the  quiet  of  the  room,  restored  her. 
She  was  almost  gay,  when  they  met  at  St.  Lazare. 
Venable  came,  laden  with  flowers,  candy,  illus- 
trated journals.  She  greeted  him  with  the  old 
merry  smile.  The  few  moments  before  their 
parting  sped  quickly.  She  did  not  even  permit 
him  to  kiss  her  good-by.  There  had  been  enough 
of  that  in  the  morning,  she  felt. 

"  You  will  write  to  me,  mon  ami"  she  cried, 
through  the  window  of  the  compartment,  as  the 
train  moved  off.  "  And  you  will  not  forget  to 
send  me  a  photograph  of  the  Phryne?  Au 
revoir"  Some  spirit  of  coquetry  caused  her  to 
toss  a  handful  of  the  violets  he  had  brought  her, 
toward  him;  her  last  view  of  him  was  by  no 
means  a  romantic  one,  for  the  violets  had  scat- 
tered along  the  platform,  and  he  was  making  des- 
perate efforts  to  gather  them  up.  Then  came  the 
blur  of  objects,  outside  the  window,  and  another 
and  deeper  blur  in  Peggy-Elise's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ROBERT  AUSTEN,  at  twenty,  had  been  an 
old  young  man.  Now,  at  forty,  he  was  a 
young  old  man.  Ambition  had  driven  him 
fiercely  through  the  intervening  years,  in  order 
that  attainment  might  the  more  quickly  come; 
the  same  force  now  caused  him  to  reach  back- 
ward, to  clutch  at  the  spent  years,  that  oppor- 
tunity might  the  more  slowly  go.  He  felt  that, 
at  forty,  a  man  should  have  achieved.  He  had 
not  achieved.  He  asked  himself  why,  and  for 
want  of  a  better  answer  laid  the  blame  at  the 
door  of  his  early  marriage. 

On  this  particular  night,  he  sat  at  his  business- 
like, roll-top  desk,  in  the  octagonal  room  off  the 
library,  that  he  called  his  study.  Because  of  its 
shape,  Mrs.  Austen  had  wished  to  turn  it  into  a 
Turkish  smoking-room ;  she  had  an  excellent  pair 
of  Turkish  curtains,  a  Mosul  saddle-bag,  and  a 
hanging  lamp  made  of  dull,  perforated  brass  that 
would  have  been  perfect  for  it ;  but  her  husband 
had  insisted  upon  the  study.  It  had  been  a  mat- 
ter of  argument  between  them  ever  since  they 
had  given  up  the  apartment,  in  town,  and  moved 
to  Flushing. 

Mr.  Austen  read  nervously,  intently,  shifting 
77 


78  PEGGY-ELISE 

his  tall,  bent  figure  from  time  to  time  to  new  posi- 
tions, in  an  effort  to  relieve  the  discomfort  occa- 
sioned by  his  too  low  chair.  It  was  perhaps 
typical  of  the  man  that  he  used  more  energy  to 
accommodate  himself  to  discomfort  than  would 
have  been  required  to  achieve  comfort. 

His  smooth-shaven  face  was  lean,  sensitive, 
plastic  —  the  face  of  an  artist,  a  dreamer.  Its 
most  striking  characteristic  was  an  expression  of 
dull  rebellion,  evidenced  by  the  straight,  almost 
somber  line  of  the  mouth,  the  vertical  furrows 
between  the  eyebrows.  A  slight  frosting  of  gray 
about  the  temples  made  one  rectify  a  first  guess 
at  Mr.  Austen's  age;  it  contradicted,  in  a  meas- 
ure, the  youthful  fire  in  his  dark,  full-lidded  eyes. 
And  here,  too,  was  rebellion,  but  the  hope-in- 
spired rebellion  that  strives,  not  the  helpless 
rebellion  that  has  lapsed  into  bitter  resentment. 

With  an  air  of  complete  boredom,  he  turned 
the  pages  of  the  manuscript  before  him. 

Presently,  he  glanced  up.  The  doorway,  lead- 
ing to  the  adjoining  room,  was  darkened  by  the 
figure  of  a  woman.  She  was  tall,  with  an  air  of 
physical  strength;  her  body  had  the  fresh  ma- 
turity of  youth  that  is  seldom  found  in  a  woman 
of  thirty-eight.  A  mass  of  live,  golden  hair 
waved  loosely  back  from  her  forehead  and  was 
caught  in  a  heavy  knot  on  her  neck ;  she  had  a 
pair  of  handsome,  petulant  blue  eyes,  a  discon- 


PEGGY-ELISE  79 

tented  mouth,  and  the  expression  of  one  whom 
life  in  some  very  definite  way,  had  disappointed. 

She  gazed  at  the  man  before  her,  with  an  un- 
humorous  smile  —  patiently,  almost  mockingly, 
as  one  might  regard  a  child. 

"What  about  to-morrow,  Bob?"  she  ques- 
tioned. 

"  To-morrow? "  Mr.  Austen  looked  at  her 
with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"  Certainly.  Have  you  forgotten?  My  niece 
arrives  by  the  French  line,  from  Paris." 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  had  forgotten.  I  suppose  it 's  up 
to  me  to  meet  her." 

"  Somebody  has  to  go.  You  know  I  can't. 
The  steamer  docks  about  noon,  and  I  have  the 
card  club  coming  right  after  lunch." 

"  To-morrow  is  a  busy  day  with  me,  too.  I 
don't  see  how  I  'm  going  to  get  away." 

"  You  '11  simply  have  to.  Tell  them  that  it  >s 
important.  Surely  they  can  let  you  have  one 
afternoon  off !  You  have  n't  had  a  vacation  for 
three  years." 

"  All  right.  I  '11  manage  it.  Noon,  you  say? 
But  how  am  I  going  to  know  the  young  woman 
when  I  see  her?  " 

"  Go  on  board,  of  course,  and  inquire  of  the 
purser  —  she  won't  leave  until  somebody  comes 
for  her.  And  please  be  as  agreeable  as  you  can. 
I  can't  say  I  'm  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  hav- 


80  PEGGY-ELISE 

ing  her  on  our  hands,  but,  after  all,  she  is  my 
sister's  child,  and  I  've  got  to  do  what  I  can  for 
her.  I  suppose  she  '11  stay  with  us  for  quite  a 
while.  I  hope  she  's  presentable.  I  'm  going  to 
give  her  that  room  over  the  pantry ;  it 's  not  very 
large,  but  I  dare  say  she  '11  manage." 
"  Why  not  the  bay-window  room?  " 
"  Our  only  guest-chamber?  What  an  idea, 
with  Tom  Russell  and  Edith  coming  for  two 
weeks,  in  September!  Really,  Bob,  I  don't  un- 
derstand you,  at  times.  I  'm  going  to  take  care 
of  this  girl,  of  course;  she  is  an  orphan,  and  I 
regard  it  as  my  duty,  but  I  certainly  don't  pro- 
pose to  have  my  entire  household  upset  by  her 
coming.  From  what  I  know  of  the  way  they 
lived,  when  Mary  was  alive,  I  imagine  the  girl 
will  be  pleased  with  anything." 

Mr.  Austen  allowed  his  gaze  to  travel  slowly 
down  the  typewritten  page  before  him.  He  ven- 
tured no  reply.  Not  being  of  a  combative  na- 
ture, his  wife's  assertive,  almost  belligerent,  man- 
ner tired  rather  than  annoyed  him.  She  was  a 
woman  who  seemed  instinctively  to  face  life  with 
a  chip  on  her  shoulder.  The  war  theory  of  Na- 
poleon, to  strike  first,  she  had  made  her  own. 
In  the  most  every-day  affairs  of  life  she  made 
use  of  it.  Conversation,  with  her,  Mr.  Austen 
had  often  remarked,  began  with  a  challenge  and 
ended  with  a  retreat. 


PEGGY-ELISE  81 

"  Very  well  —  I  '11  meet  her,"  he  said,  by  way 
of  dismissing  the  subject,  and  turned  once  more 
to  his  work. 

His  wife,  however,  showed  no  inclination  to 
depart.  She  gazed,  fretfully,  at  the  pile  of 
manuscripts. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  out  on  the  porch?  "  she 
asked.  "  It 's  much  cooler  out  there.  And  I 
can't  say  I  enjoy  sitting  there,  alone  —  it 's  not 
especially  exciting." 

"  I  've  got  this  serial  to  finish,"  he  protested. 
"  We  may  be  able  to  use  it  —  one  of  Wallace 
Allen's.  A  good  story,  snappy  —  what  the  pub- 
lic wants.  As  an  editor,  I  've  got  to  please 
them."  He  read  for  a  moment.  "  Listen  to  this 
—  the  hero  is  proposing : 

"Betty,  I  'ra  dippy  about  you.  Can't  dance  with 
another  girl  to  save  my  life.  Why  should  n  't  we  hit 
it  off?" 

' '  What  d '  ye  mean  ?    Marriage  ? ' ' 

"Sure.    Why  not?" 

"It  's  such  a  bore." 

"No  other  way  for  us  to  go  to  Honolulu  this  winter, 
the  way  we  Ve  planned. ' ' 

"All  right.  I  hope  it  '11  take.  If  it  doesn't,  and 
it  means  a  trip  to  Reno,  don't  blame  me." 

"I  won't.  I  'm  a  good  loser.  Shall  we  run  down 
in  the  morning  and  get  the  license?" 

"I   suppose   we   might    as    well.     Early,    though. 


82  PEGGY-ELISE 

I  Ve  got  a  tennis  match  on,  at  eleven.  Why  is  it  they 
can't  make  a  decent  cocktail,  in  this  place?  Suppose 
we  move  on  to  Sherry's." 

Mr.  Austen  looked  up  from  the  manuscript, 
with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"Literature  a  la  mode"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Austen  returned,  "  it 's  real,  at 
pny  rate.  I  like  Wallace  Allen's  work.  Every- 
body does.  What 's  the  use  of  your  reading  the 
thing.  His  name  is  enough  to  carry  it.  I  only 
wish  you  could  get  fifteen  thousand  for  a  serial." 

"  I  might,  if  I  had  time,  and  peace  of  mind,  to 
write  one.  But  life,  nowadays,  seems  to  be 
nothing  but  bills."  He  took  some  papers  from 
a  drawer  of  the  desk.  "  Here  's  a  lot  that  came 
in  this  morning:  Dentist,  $42.50;  meat,  $65.00 
—  two  months;  Collins  and  Strauss,  $110.00." 
He  let  the  accounts  fall  from  his  hands,  with  a 
helpless  gesture.  "  What 's  the  use?  " 

"  Don't  forget,"  Mrs.  Austen  said,  with  as- 
perity, "  that  you  have  a  wife  and  three  children. 
It  would  be  very  nice,  of  course,  if  we  could  all 
go  about  in  fig-leaves,  but  unfortunately  the  con- 
ventions make  it  necessary  for  us  to  have 
clothes." 

"  Could  n't  you  make  some  of  them,  Belle?  " 
he  hazarded.  "  Lots  of  women  do.  Here 's 
twenty-four  dollars  for  night-dresses,  alone. 
For  Isabelle." 


PEGGY-ELISE  83 

"  Well,  why  not?  The  poor  child  bought  the 
cheapest  she  could  find.  Six  dollars  apiece. 
She  wanted  the  embroidered  crepe  de  Chine,  but 
they  were  twelve,  each,  for  the  very  plainest." 

Mr.  Austen  replaced  the  bills  in  the  drawer 
of  the  desk,  and,  rising,  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  There ' s  only  a  little  over  a  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bank,"  he  remarked,  "  but  I  'm  hoping 
Underwood's  will  take  that  sea-story  of  mine. 
God !  "  he  suddenly  burst  out,  "  if  I  could  only  — 
just  once  —  get  out  of  debt !  " 

Mrs.  Austen  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  George  Harwood  is  making  a  hundred  thou- 
sand a  year,"  she  said,  "  out  of  his  plays.  I  saw 
it  in  the  paper.  Why  don't  you  write  a  play?  " 

Mr.  Austen  gave  his  wife  a  long  and  not  very 
friendly  look. 

"  That  synopsis  I  sold  last  month  for  five  hun- 
dred could  have  been  made  into  a  play,"  he  said. 
"  I  'd  never  have  let  it  go  for  motion  picture  use 
if  I  hadn't  needed  the  money.  That's  the 
trouble  with  me.  I  have  to  sacrifice  my  best 
ideas  for  ready  cash,  to  pay  bills,  when,  if  I 
could  hold  onto  them,  I  might  get  ten  times  — 
a  hundred  times  —  as  much." 

Mrs.  Austen  sniffed. 

"  I  know  you  blame  it  all  on  me,"  she  said, 
with  a  shrug.  "  If  you  had  n't  married  me,  and 
undertaken  to  support  a  family,  you  'd  have  been 


84  PEGGY-ELISE 

a  famous  and  successful  writer,  of  course. 
There 's  nothing  like  having  some  one  to  blame 
your  failures  upon.  My  own  opinion  is  that  if 
you  hadn't  had  duties,  responsibilities,  to  urge 
you  on,  you  'd  never  have  done  anything.  Some 
men  need  the  spur  of  necessity  to  keep  them 
going.  You  say  married  men  are  handicapped. 
Look  at  Vickers,  and  Chandler  —  they  're  both 
married,  but  they  're  making  good,  just  the  same. 
You  are  too  easily  discouraged.  Everything  will 
come  out  all  right.  If  you  can't  meet  the  bills, 
this  month,  I  '11  write  to  Uncle  and  ask  him  to 
help  us  out." 

"  Do  you  think  I  want  you  to  be  always  asking 
favors  of  your  godfather?  "  Mr.  Austen  retorted 
angrily.  He  resented  more  bitterly  than  most 
things  his  wife's  habit  of  turning  to  her  indul- 
gent godfather  —  whom  the  children  called 
"  Uncle  " —  in  every  emergency, —  emergencies 
invariably  of  her  own  creating.  "  I  'm  making 
enough  for  us  to  get  along  on  —  four  thousand  a 
year  salary,  and  at  least  two  more  from  my  out- 
side work.  That 's  five  hundred  a  month.  We 
ought  to  be  able  to  keep  out  of  debt  on  that,  with 
any  sort  of  management.  I  'm  tired  of  being 
always  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  Why  can't 
you  try  to  economize  a  little,  with  this  war  star- 
ing us  in  the  face?  Other  people  do." 


PEGGY-ELISE  85 

"  Well,  I  certainly  do  the  best  I  can.  Heaven 
knows  I  have  few  enough  pleasures.  If  you 
think  you  can  mn  the  house  on  less  than  I  do,  I 
wish  you  'd  try  it  —  I  'm  sick  enough  of  the 
task."  She  turned  away,  abruptly,  and  left  the 
room. 

Her  husband  rose  and  followed  her,  greatly  up- 
set. 

"  I  'm  not  blaming  you,  Belle,"  he  expostu- 
lated. "  I  suppose  I  'm  a  dreadful  failure,  but 
you  know  I  can  write.  Only  —  it 's  pretty  hard 
to  concentrate,  and  do  good  work,  when  your 
free  time  has  to  be  devoted  to  financial  worries, 
and  your  daytime  hours  are  all  taken  up  with 
routine  duties,  as  mine  are." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  give  up  your  job?  " 

"  Belle,  you  ought  not  to  say  that.  I  'd  give 
it  up  quickly  enough,  if  I  were  single  —  I  'd  live 
in  a  garret,  on  bread  and  cheese,  and  be  glad  of 
the  chance  if  I  did  n't  have  you  and  the  children 
to  think  of." 

Mrs.  Austen  sighed  resignedly. 

"  I  can't  let  you  want  for  anything,"  Mr.  Aus- 
ten went  on.  "That's  the  tragedy  of  it  all. 
I  've  sold  my  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  I 
suppose." 

"  Not  specially  flattering  to  the  pottage,"  his 
wife  interjected  acidly.  "  Well  —  it 's  not  my 


86  PEGGY-ELISE 

fault  if  you  're  dissatisfied  with  your  bargain. 
Why  don't  you  be  a  good  sport,  and  play  the 
game,  now  that  you  've  started  it?  " 

"  That 's  what  I  'm  trying  to  do.  But  I  can't 
help  wondering  what  would  happen  if  I  were  sud- 
denly to  call  for  a  new  deal.  ...  If  I  were  that 
sort  of  man,  I  might  abandon  the  whole  situa- 
tion, leave  you  flat,  and  take  the  time  really  to 
do  something  worth  while.  You  would  regard 
me  as  a  scoundrel,  I  suppose,  but  if  I  wrote  some- 
thing big,  fine,  under  the  inspiration  of  my  new 
freedom  —  something  that  made  me  famous  — 
my  children  would  n't  be  able  to  sneer  at  me. 
They  'd  say :  '  Yes  —  perhaps  he  was  n't  all  he 
should  have  been,  but  he  did  write  the  biggest 
novel  of  the  century.'  That 's  the  irony  of  it 
all.  I  sacrifice  my  life  to  give  them  and  you  the 
commonplaces  of  existence,  and  I  get  nothing  in 
return  but  criticism  for  not  having  done  more. 
Free,  I  might  make  a  name  for  myself.  You 
have  never  tried  to  understand  the  creative  tem- 
perament, Belle;  it  demands  the  best  a  man  has 
to  give;  it  makes  him  ruthless  —  or  ought  to. 
He  can't  give  everything  to  others  and  have  any- 
thing left  for  his  work.  All  I  ask  is  a  chance 
to  show  what  I  can  do  —  and  I  can't  get  it."  He 
trembled  from  excitement.  "  Can't  you  see,"  he 
added,  almost  pathetically,  "the  terrible  strug- 
gle I  have  between  my  duty  to  you  and  the  chil- 


PEGGY-ELISE  87 

dren,  on  the  one  hand,  and  my  duty  to  myself,  on 
the  other?  " 

Mrs.  Austen  regarded  her  husband  with  a  cold 
and  deliberate  eye. 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  all  that  before 
you  married  me,"  she  said.  "  I  did  n't  compel 
you  to  do  it  —  you  insisted  upon  it  —  said  you 
couldn't  live  without  me.  Don't  try  to  escape 
the  consequences,  now  —  it  would  be  ridiculous 
at  your  age.  Of  course,  if  you  think  it  your  duty 
to  abandon  me  and  your  children,  go  ahead  — 
you  '11  come  back  soon  enough.  I  'm  not  the 
least  bit  afraid.  You  get  these  spasms  every 
little  while,  but  I  've  learned  not  to  pay  any  at- 
tention to  them."  She  once  more  turned  away. 
Her  husband  clutched  her  arm. 

"  Why  won't  you  help  me?  "  he  cried. 

"  How?    I  'm  sure  I  do  all  I  can." 

"  I  've  told  you  how,  so  often.  Could  n't  we 
economize  —  live  in  a  simpler  way  —  save  up 
enough  to  buy  —  yes,  buy  —  me  a  year  of  free- 
dom? I  '11  show  you  what  I  can  do  — " 

Mrs.  Austen  shook  off  his  detaining  hand. 

"  I  'm  doing  the  best  I  can,  Bob,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  let 's  go  all  over  it  again.  I  have  a 
headache.  Don't  forget  what  I  told  you  about 
meeting  that  Lascelles  girl.  And,  of  course,  with 
another  mouth  to  feed,  the  bills  are  not  going  to 
be  any  less.  If  you  take  my  advice,  you  '11  go 


88  PEGGY-ELISE 

right  to  Mr.  Walker  and  tell  him  the  high  prices 
of  everything  make  it  necessary  for  you  to  have 
an  increase  in  salary.  That  would  be  far  more 
to  the  point  than  fretting  over  your  monthly 
expenses  and  nagging  me  to  death  about  my  ex- 
travagance. They  ought  to  give  you  five  thou- 
sand, at  least."  She  went  quickly  toward  the 
hall,  from  which  came  the  strident  voices  of  two 
quarreling  children. 

Mr.  Austen  went  back  to  his  study.  The 
manscript  he  had  been  reading  no  longer  inter- 
ested him.  He  drew  toward  him  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  spent  a  long  time  adding  up  rows 
of  figures. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PEGGY-ELISE,  after  the  lonely  journey  from 
France,  had  a  sinking  feeling  about  the 
heart  as  the  decks  of  the  steamer  became  empty 
and  no  one  appeared  to  welcome  her. 

Because  she  was  expecting  her  aunt  to  meet 
her,  she  took  no  interest  in  the  tall,  handsome 
man  hurrying  up  the  gang  plank  —  beyond  the 
interest  handsomeness,  itself,  inspires  —  until 
she  saw  him  approaching  her,  with  the  purser, 
his  face  lit  by  a  friendly,  interrogating  smile. 
He  put  out  an  impulsive  hand. 

"  I  'm  Mr.  Austen,"  he  explained,  in  English. 
"  I  'm  so  sorry  to  be  late."  Then  added,  in 
queer,  self-conscious  accents:  "  Parlez-vous 
anglais?  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,"  Peggy-Elise  replied, 
taking  the  man's  outstretched  hand.  "  You  are 
the  husband  of  my  aunt?  " 

He  looked  relieved  as  she  answered  him  in  his 
own  tongue. 

"  Yes.  Unfortunately,  she  could  not  come  to 
meet  you,  herself.  Suppose  we  get  your  things, 
and  go  ashore.  The  customs  people  won't  be 


90  PEGGY-ELISE 

long  —  then  we  '11  go  and  have  lunch.  I  know 
a  delightful  little  cafe"." 

There  was  a  certain  eagerness  in  his  manner, 
a  suggestion  of  excitement.  He  found  his  for- 
eign-born niece  unexpectedly  attractive.  To 
take  her  to  luncheon  had  seemed,  in  prospect, 
something  of  an  ordeal  —  an  embarrassing  series 
of  attempts  to  understand  and  make  himself 
understood;  but  she  spoke  English  perfectly,  ex- 
cept for  an  occasional  oddity  of  construction,  and 
already  his  "  duty  "  had  become  an  agreeable  ad- 
venture. 

As  they  were  flying  across  town,  in  a  taxicab, 
her  luggage  —  a  satchel,  a  bundle  in  a  shawl- 
strap,  a  small  leather  trunk  —  piled  in  beside  the 
driver,  Peggy-Elise  was  thinking  that  the  streets 
were  very  rough  and  dirty,  and  the  buildings 
along  the  route  of  their  drive  extraordinarily 
mean  and  sordid.  She  had  anticipated  some- 
thing quite  different,  from  the  gleaming  white 
towers  that  had  first  met  her  vision  along  the 
skyline.  In  this  slightly  disappointed  frame  of 
mind,  she  found  herself  leaving  the  cab  in  front 
of  a  plain-looking  brick  building,  painted  a 
light  buff. 

Mr.  Austen  announced,  with  a  pleased  smile, 
that  it  was  a  French  restaurant,  and  led  the  way 
within.  Peggy-Elise  followed,  not  at  all  sure 
that  she  would  n't  have  preferred  an  American 


PEGGY-ELISE  91 

one.  She  felt  a  deep  curiosity  concerning  Amer- 
ica and  things  American,  and  longed  to  come  in 
contact  with  them. 

The  delicious  luncheon  her  uncle  ordered  put 
other  thoughts  temporarily  out  of  her  mind. 
She  reflected  that  he  seemed  bent  on  pleasing  her, 
in  every  respect.  His  manner  was  flatteringly 
cordial. 

No,  Peggy-Elise  found  herself  saying,  she  had 
not  been  seasick ;  and,  yes,  she  would  like  a  little 
red  wine  —  vin  ordinaire.  In  true  French 
fashion,  she  diluted  it  with  water,  much  to  Mr. 
Austen's  surprise ;  and  it  was  nice  of  him  to  hope 
that  they  might  be  able  to  make  her  happy,  in 
their  so-great  America ;  and  she  was  n't  tired,  at 
all ;  and  the  restaurant  was  very  agreeable ;  and 
was  she  correct  to  suppose  that  her  aunt  had 
three  children? 

He  nodded:  Isabelle,  a  daughter,  of  eighteen; 
Robert  Allyn,  Jr.,  whom  they  called  Allyn,  now 
turned  sixteen ;  and  the  baby,  Anne,  who  was  ten. 
He  looked  very  pleased  when  Peggy-Elise  told 
him,  writh  one  of  her  rare  and  flashing  smiles, 
that  he  seemed  far  too  young  to  have  a  grown 
daughter.  She  had  not  meant  to  pay  a  compli- 
ment ;  her  uncle's  youthfulness  had  come  to  the 
fore  in  response  to  her  own;  he  appreciated  her 
words  the  more  because  he  felt  the  sincerity  of 
them. 


92  PEGGY-ELISE 

They  spent  quite  two  hours  over  the  little 
meal,  during  which  Peggy-Elise  and  her  newly 
found  uncle  became  great  friends.  Mr.  Austen 
had  not  enjoyed  himself  so  much  for  a  long  time. 
He  felt  like  a  boy  upon  a  holiday.  The  office 
grind  was  forgotten,  and  the  financial  sword  of 
Damocles,  that  hung  by  so  frail  a  thread  in  his 
study  at  home,  ceased  to  threaten  him  while  he 
chatted  with  the  stimulating  young  woman  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  In  fact,  he  rather 
doubted  that  it  had  ever  threatened,  as,  under 
the  spell  of  Peggy-Elise's  enthusiasm,  he  talked 
of  his  work  and  ambitions  —  ambitions  that 
seemed  suddenly  certain  of  realization.  He 
would  have  liked  to  talk  much  more  freely  about 
his  hopes,  but  it  would  have  involved  a  discus- 
sion of  his  financial  situation  which,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, would  have  cruelly  embarrassed  the 
girl.  To  avoid  the  temptation,  he  began  to  ques- 
tion her  about  herself. 

"  You  show  a  great  deal  of  understanding  of 
one's  ambitions,  Mademoiselle  Lascelles;  such 
sympathy  is  rare  in  a  girl  of  your  age  —  you  are 
not  over  twenty?  " 

"  I  am  nineteen,  monsieur  —  but  then  perhaps 
it  is  not  years  that  count.  When  I  should  have 
been  playing  with  dolls,  I  preferred  to  listen  to 
my  father  discussing  with  his  friends  everything 


PEGGY-ELISE  93 

in  the  universe  —  he  was  a  great  philosopher." 
She  smiled,  tenderly.  "  And,  besides,  it  has  been 
always  my  nature  to  think,  and  if  one  thinks  — 
one  must  understand  a  little." 

"  I  think,"  Mr.  Austen  said,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "  that  you  are  a  very  remarkable  girl." 

"  But  not  at  all ! "  She  laughed,  coloring. 
"  I  am  just  —  ordinary." 

"  You  are  not '  ordinary,'  compared  with  girls 
of  your  age  here  in  America,"  he  said,  thought- 
fully. When  he  had  learned  that  Peggy-Elise 
was  coming  to  live  with  them,  he  had  supposed 
that  his  elder  daughter  Isabelle  would  be  com- 
pany for  her.  He  smiled  a  little  ruefully  now  at 
the  recollection.  He  wondered  what  this  grave 
young  girl  —  for  he  sensed  the  gravity  that  un- 
derlay her  lightness  —  would  think  of  her  new 
relatives.  As  to  what  they  would  think  of  her  — 
He  sighed. 

An  hour  later,  as  they  left  the  Flushing  sta- 
tion and  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  Austen 
home,  Mr.  Austen  nodded  toward  an  enormous 
white  structure,  with  a  brick-red,  Queen  Anne 
roof  and  amusing  Colonial  variations : 

"  Our  house  is  the  third  from  that  atrocity 
on  the  corner ;  it  belongs  to  a  Mr.  Donnelly.  He 
used  to  be  a  contractor,  but  he  has  retired  from 
business  and  come  out  here  to  live.  I  don't  sup- 


94  PEGGY-ELISE 

pose  this  interests  you,  but  I  mention  it  because 
you  can't  be  in  the  neighborhood  long,  anyway, 
without  hearing  of  the  family." 

As  he  spoke,  a  long-nosed,  yellow  car  shot  out 
from  under  the  porte-cochere,  and  came  whizzing 
down  the  drive  —  a  capped  and  goggled  figure  at 
the  wheel,  another  capped  and  goggled  figure  be- 
side it.  They  waited  for  it  to  pass.  Mr.  Austen 
scowled  at  the  car  in  a  fashion  that  his  niece  was 
at  a  loss  to  interpret.  It  blurred  by,  and  was 
far  down  the  street  before  an  arm  waved  back 
at  them. 

"  I  thought  that  was  Allyn !  "  His  face  was 
white  with  anger.  Peggy-Elise  expected  an  ex- 
planation, but  none  was  offered. 

They  reached  the  Austen  place  in  silence.  In 
silence,  they  turned  in  under  the  trailing  honey- 
suckle that  arched  the  trim  box  hedge.  As  they 
moved  up  the  long  pathway,  Mrs.  Austen,  who 
had  been  talking  to  the  hired  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lawn,  crossed  to  meet  them.  She 
looked  very  handsome  and  very  young  as  she 
came  toward  them,  all  in  white,  twirling  a  spike 
of  blue  larkspur,  and  humming  gaily. 

"  I  expected  you  people  hours  ago !  "  she  said, 
putting  out  a  welcoming  hand  to  Peggy-Elise, 
and  kissing  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"  We  stopped  for  lunch."  Mr.  Austen  spoke  a 
trifle  irritably. 


PEGGY-ELISE  95 

His  wife's  almost  imperceptibly  raised  eye- 
brows seemed  to  ask :  "  Does  it  take  so  long  for 
lunch?" 

"Where's  Isabelle? "  he  demanded,  the  elo- 
quent eyebrow  rankling. 

"  Tennis." 

Her  husband  frowned,  and  bit  his  lip. 

"  She  had  to  go,  Bob."  She  included  Peggy- 
Elise  in  the  explanation.  "  There  are  some 
match  games  on,  over  at  Doris's,  and  Is  is  one 
of  their  crack  players.  She  '11  be  home  soon, 
now." 

"  She  could  have  stayed  home  one  afternoon." 

"  There  's  no  use  being  unreasonable  about  it," 
Mrs.  Austen  remonstrated ;  "  I  've  explained 
why  she  had  to  go.  We  're  keeping  this  poor 
child  standing  here !  "  She  laid  her  hand  on  the 
girl's  arm,  smiling.  "  Come  along." 

Peggy-Elise  followed  her  into  the  house,  re- 
freshingly cool  after  the  blistering  August  heat 
outside.  As  they  passed  the  open  door  of  the 
dining-room,  her  aunt  stopped  and  told  the  maid 
to  serve  tea  in  fifteen  minutes.  Then  she  ran 
lightly  up  the  broad,  polished  stairs.  Peggy- 
Elise  followed  more  slowly;  she  was  not  less 
light  of  foot,  but  she  was  considerably  less  light 
of  heart.  Her  aunt's  reception  had  chilled  her, 
and  the  absence  of  her  cousins,  the  casualness 
with  which  her  arrival  in  the  Austen  household 


96  PEGGY-ELISE 

had  been  treated,  emphasized  her  unimportance 
and  made  her  feel  distressingly  conscious  of  her 
dependent  position.  Also,  her  aunt  lived  in  ap- 
parent affluence,  and  though  this  relieved  the 
girl  of  anxiety  on  the  score  of  expense  she  saw 
that  there  would  be  little  for  her  to  do  in  return 
for  her  aunt's  hospitality.  She  might  teach  the 
children  French,  she  was  thinking,  as  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten ushered  her  into  a  small,  meagerly  furnished 
room  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  have  to  put  you  in  here,"  Mrs. 
Austen  found  herself  explaining,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  her  niece's  distinguished  air  and  the 
unmistakably  cultured  quality  of  her  voice.  "  It 
will  be  for  only  a  little  while  —  we  have  some 
people  coming  soon  —  and,  you  see,  we  have  only 
one  guest-chamber.  When  they  go,  you  can  have 
that  room,  but  it  would  just  mean  moving  back 
and  forth,  now." 

"  But  I  would  not  think  of  having  you  give  it 
up  to  me,"  the  girl  said,  impulsively.  "  I  can 
be  very  comfortable  here  —  you  are  very  kind." 

Her  aunt  did  not  protest. 

"Well  —  the  bathroom's  there  —  you'll  find 
everything  you  need,  I  think.  When  you're 
ready,  come  down  on  to  the  veranda."  She 
smiled  a  quick,  automatic  smile,  that  was  like  a 
handy  mask,  hastily  whipped  on  and  off  —  and 
was  gone. 


PEGGY-ELISE  97 

As  Mrs.  Austen  went  out,  Peggy-Elise  heard 
some  one  running  up  the  stairs,  and  the  next 
moment  there  was  the  sound  of  voices  on  the 
landing  near  her  door.  Some  words  came  to  her, 
unavoidably  distinct : 

"  I  've  told  Allyn,  a  half  dozen  times,  that  I 
don't  want  him  to  go  out  with  Bex  Donnelly  in 
that  car!  In  the  first  place,  no  boy  should  be 
allowed  to  drive  a  high-powered  machine  like 
that!  They  get  to  racing,  and  the  first  thing 
you  know  there  '11  be  an  accident." 

"  You  're  so  tiresome  about  it,"  Mrs.  Austen 
was  saying  in  a  bored  voice.  "  You  can't  wrap 
boys  up  in  cotton- wool!  Besides,  Allyn  is 
crazy  to  have  a  car  of  his  own,  and  if 
you  can't  give  him  one  you  might  at  least  not 
deprive  him  of  what  pleasure  he  can  get  out- 
side." 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven," —  Mr.  Austen  raised 
his  voice  — "  why  should  he  have  a  car  —  at  his 
age?" 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he?  Several  of  the 
boys  he  knows  have  them!  You  have  such  old- 
fogey  notions,"  she  said,  impatiently. 

"  If  I  had  my  way,"  he  flung  out,  savagely, 
"  Isabelle  and  Allyn  would  never  set  foot  in  the 
Donnelly's  house  again.  It's  ruining  them! 
My  God,  I  give  them  everything  I  can,  and  more 
than  I  can,  but  you  can't  expect  me  to  keep  up 


98  PEGGY-ELISE 

with  a  millionaire,  and  that 's  what  it 's  coming 
to!" 

Peggy-Elise  heard  them  go  downstairs,  still 
talking.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring 
at  the  wall,  and  feeling  vaguely  disturbed.  The 
clink  of  dishes  in  the  room  below  made  her  spring 
up,  whip  off  the  smart  little  black  hat,  of  her  own 
fashioning,  and  begin  a  hasty  toilet.  She  had 
just  let  down  her  hair,  and  begun  to  brush  it  with 
rapid,  even  strokes,  when  there  was  a  light  rap 
on  the  door. 

She  darted  to  open  it.  On  the  threshold  stood 
a  child  of  ten,  tall  for  her  age,  whose  height  was 
emphasized  by  the  short  smocked  frock  of  dull 
blue  linen,  stopping  just  above  her  bare  olive 
knees.  She  regarded  Peggy-Elise  gravely.  Be- 
fore the  girl  could  speak,  her  visitor  began  to 
recite,  a  little  breathlessly: 

"  Vous  etes  la  bienvenue,  ma  chere  cousine, 
chez  nous! " 

It  was  odd  French,  and  oddly  pronounced,  but 
the  dear  thought  back  of  it,  the  desire  to  give 
her  a  familiar  moment  in  this  new,  strange  land, 
and  in  what  was,  necessarily,  a  strange  house, 
made  the  girl's  heart  leap  and  the  tears  spring 
to  her  eyes.  She  reached  out  and  caught  the 
child  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her  many  times  on 
both  fresh  cheeks. 


PEGGY-ELISE  99 

" Est-ce  que  tu  paries  fmnqais,  ma  petite?" 
she  asked,  holding  her  close. 

"  I  don't  understand  French,"  the  child  said, 
smiling,  "  but  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  tell  you 
you  were  welcome,  in  it,  so  Daddy  taught  me. 
He  does  n't  know  much  French,  either  —  he  did, 
but  he's  forgotten  it.  We  had  to  look  in  the 
dictionary  for  '  welcome.'  " 

Peggy-Elise  hugged  her. 

"  You  are  Anne, —  are  you  not?  " 

"  Oh,  I  meant  to  tell  you  I  was  Anne,  but  I 
was  so  full  of  the  other,  it  put  everything  else 
out  of  my  head ! "  She  laughed  bubblingly. 
"  Shall  I  call  you  Peggy-Elise?  Or  will  it  do  if 
I  just  say  Cousin  Peggy?  " 

"  Call  me  Peggy,  ma  mie"  the  girl  said,  cap- 
tivated by  her  directness. 

"  What  beautiful  hair  you  have ! "  Anne  ex- 
claimed. "  So  glossy  and  sort  of  red !  Oh !  I  love 
red  hair  —  I  think  mine  is  going  to  be  red," 
she  announced,  feeling  of  the  tawny  stubble  that 
covered  her  well-shaped  little  head.  "  They  had 
to  shave  it  off,  after  I  had  typhoid,  but  I  '11  have 
lots  of  it  —  we  all  have  lots  of  hair.  I  '11  go 
down,  now,  and  let  you  finish  dressing.  Are 
you  almost  ready?  " 

As  Peggy-Elise  twisted  up  her  hair  and  hur- 
riedly thrust  the  pins  into  it,  she  was  thinking 


100  PEGGY-ELISE 

that  her  small  cousin  was  a  very  unusual  child. 
Anne  Austen  had,  in  fact,  poise  and  a  certain 
forcefulness  which  created  this  impression.  The 
girl  wondered  if  she  were  a  typical  American 
child. 

Anne  had  been  born  to  the  Austens  several 
years  after  they  had  frankly  admitted  a  mutual 
disappointment  in  their  marriage,  and  when  in- 
stances of  dissatisfaction,  instead  of  being  re- 
pressed, were  produced  triumphantly  and  dis- 
cussed exhaustively,  bitterly,  hopelessly.  As  a 
result,  she  heard  many  illuminating  threshings  of 
domestic  problems,  and,  shortly  out  of  her  cradle, 
began  to  side  With  her  father. 

"  Come  over  and  sit  by  me  —  Peggy,"  Anne 
invited,  sliding  down  from  the  broad  wicker  arm 
of  her  father's  chair,  as  Peggy-Elise  came  out 
onto  the  porch. 

"  I  fear  I  am  late  —  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
bad  beginning."  The  girl  spoke  lightly,  but  Mr. 
Austen  detected  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"You  are  beginning  beautifully,"  he  assured 
her. 

Smiling  in  pretty  apology,  she  hurried  toward 
the  little  group  in  the  corner,  where  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten, beside  the  wicker  wagon,  was  already  pour- 
ing tea. 

"No  —  tea's  a  movable  feast,"  her  aunt  said 
carelessly. 


PEGGY-ELISE  101 

Her  uncle,  who  had  risen,  was  standing,  smil- 
ing warmly  at  her ;  the  expression  in  his  smolder- 
ing brown  eyes  made  her  lower  her  own  for  a 
surprised  moment.  She,  in  a  simple  black 
crepe  de  Chine  frock,  with  fine  white  hemstitched 
collar  and  cuffs,  her  transparent-skinned,  sensi- 
tive face  framed  by  her  glinting  tawny  hair,  her 
lips  slightly  parted,  her  gray  eyes  luminous  with 
excitement,  seemed  to  Mr.  Austen  strikingly 
beautiful  and  alluring.  He  emptied  the  chair 
next  to  his  of  some  magazines  and  papers  and 
offered  it  to  her. 

"  It  is  very  hot,"  she  said,  as  she  dropped 
gracefully  into  it. 

Mrs.  Austen  glanced  up  to  ask  if  she  would 
have  sugar  and  cream  in  her  tea.  As  she  passed 
the  cup  to  her,  her  eyes  went,  apparently,  in- 
stantly to  the  girl's  face,  yet  they  had,  by  some 
feminine  legerdemain,  traveled  from  the  sharply 
pointed  toe  of  Peggy-Elise's  French  shoe,  to  the 
broad,  beautifully  curved  top  of  her  head  —  over 
which  Venable  had  raved  —  without  missing  one 
detail.  Furthermore,  without  even  glancing  at 
her  husband,  she  knew  that  he  was  looking  young 
and  handsome.  She  held  out  a  cup  of  tea  to  him, 
smiling  inscrutably. 

"There  are  some  cakes  —  sandwiches  and 
stuff."  She  nodded  toward  the  shelves  of  the 
wagon.  "  Try  one  of  those  pecan  sandwiches  — 


102  PEGGY-ELISE 

they  're  delicious  —  they  were  left  over  from 
this  afternoon.  Oh,  I  'm  dead !  "  she  said,  sink- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  and  pressing  her  fingers 
to  her  eyes. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  yourself?  "  her  husband  asked 
at  length,  in  a  rather  strained  tone. 

"  No.  It  was  really  too  hot,  to-day,  to  play 
cards.  Mrs.  Slope  carried  off  first  —  she  's  an 
impossible  creature !  She  immediately  began  to 
talk  about  the  handsome  prizes  Mrs.  Cadman  al- 
ways gives.  Why,  I  won  one  of  her  firsts,  last 
winter,  and  it  wasn't  worth  bringing  home  — 
you  know,  Bob  —  that  dinky  little  compotiere! " 

Mr.  Austen  nodded. 

"  You  are  fond  of  cards,  yes? "  Peggy-Elise 
inquired,  reaching  for  a  cake. 

"  Mad  about  them !  "  Her  aunt  pushed  the 
cake-dish  toward  her.  "Aren't  you?" 

"  No."  She  made  a  comical  moue  of  regret. 
"  I  have  no  intelligence  for  cards,  and  it  is  stupid 
to  waste  time  on  something  you  do  badly  —  do 
you  not  think  so?  " 

Mrs.  Austen  raised  her  eyebrows  noncommit- 
tally. 

"I  think  it's  stupid  to  play  cards,  at  all  — 
whether  you  do  it  well  or  badly,"  Mr.  Austen  de- 
clared, with  heat.  "  It 's  a  pure  waste  of  time !  " 

"  Hear  the  little  busy  bee !  "  his  wife  mocked 
gaily.  "  Life  is  so  exciting,  here !  What  am  I 


PEGGY-ELISE  103 

to  do?  Go  to  '  Mothers'  Meetings '  and  join  the 
'Dorcas  Society'?  I  have  to  kill  time,  some- 
how!" 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  are  several  other  ways 
in  which  you  might  kill  it,"  he  retorted  pointedly. 

"  We  will  now  have  a  little  lecture  from 
father,  on  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother." 
There  was  a  touch  of  recklessness  in  her  laugh- 
ter. "  Have  some  more  tea?  " 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  had  enough,"  Peggy-Elise 
smiled. 

"  You  see,  Mademoiselle  Lascelles,"  Mr.  Aus- 
ten explained,  "  Mrs.  Austen  —  that  is,  your  aunt 
—  does  n't  care  for  the  country,  and  she  — " 

"And  she  isn't  domestic,"  his  wife  inter- 
rupted, laughing  again,  "  and  she  's  frightfully 
extravagant.  You  see,  you  're  a  member  of  the 
family,  now," — she  spoke  half-banteringly  — 
"  so  we  '11  introduce  you  to  all  the  family  skele- 
tons." 

"  If  you  and  my  uncle  will  call  me  '  Peggy,'  " 
she  ventured  diffidently,  "  that  will  make  me  feel 
more  like  a  real  member  of  the  family  than  even 
to  meet  the  skeletons." 

"  Here  comes  Isabelle,"  said  Anne,  who  had 
lingered  in  silent,  helpless  infatuation  beside 
Peggy-Elise's  chair. 

The  Austens'  eldest  daughter,  in  smart  but 
crumpled  white  tennis  garb,  a  green  and  white 


104  PEGGY-ELISE 

striped  sweater  slung  over  her  shoulder,  crossed 
the  veranda  at  a  rather  languid  gait,  her  head 
inclined  to  one  side.  She  carried  two  racquets 
in  one  hand,  and  a  magazine  in  the  other.  At 
sight  of  Peggy,  she  smiled  —  a  pretty,  dimpled 
smile  that  fitted  most  occasions. 

"  Isabelle,"  Mrs.  Austen  said,  "  this  is  your 
cousin,  Peggy." 

Peggy  rose,  meaning  to  embrace  her  cousin, 
but  before  she  could  do  so,  Isabelle,  her  hands 
still  full,  laughingly  offered  her  two  disengaged 
fingers. 

"Aren't  you  dead  with  this  heat?"  she  in- 
quired, pushing  back  a  stray  lock  of  golden 
hair  with  the  hand  that  held  the  magazine,  at 
the  same  time  appraising  her  new  cousin,  curi- 
ously. "  I  almost  died,  over  on  the  court,  to- 
day !  Whew !  But  we  won ! "  She  crossed 
over  to  her  father,  kissed  him  dutifully,  and 
flopped  into  a  chair. 

"  I  suppose  you  're  all  tired  out  from  your 
long  journey?  " 

"  No  —  I  am  not  very  tired  —  I  rested  all  the 
way." 

Isabelle  began  to  fan  herself. 

"  Would  you  like  some  tea? "  her  mother 
asked. 

"  No !     I  just  drank  a  gallon  of  ice- water !  " 

"You  shouldn't  do  that,  when  you're  over- 


PEGGY-ELISE  105 

heated,"  her  father  remonstrated.  "  Had  Allyn 
returned,  when  you  left?  " 

"  Yes.  Kex  has  a  new  bull-terrier ;  they  went 
down  to  put  it  in  the  kennels.  Allyn  said  he  'd 
be  right  over."  She  glanced  across  the  lawn. 
"  Here  he  comes,  now." 

Peggy  liked  the  tall,  lanky  boy,  who  blushed 
violently  as  he  crossed  the  veranda  and  shook 
hands  with  her. 

"I  hope  you'll  pardon  my  appearance,  Miss 
Lascelles," — he  glanced  down  at  his  mussed 
clothes.  "  Welcome  to  our  city !  " 

This  latest  Austen  was  blond,  like  his  mother, 
Peggy  saw.  He  kept  shaking  his  heavy,  straight 
hair  out  of  his  eyes  that,  when  he  was  not  smil- 
ing, were  a  little  hard  too,  like  hers. 

"  Sorry  I  could  n't  stop,  to-day,"  he  went  on. 
"Kex  and  I  had  to  rush  down  to  the  express 
office  to  get  a  bull-terrier  pup  his  father  bought 
him.  Gee!  I  wish  I  had  one  like  it! " 

"  You  '11  have  to  ask  your  Uncle  Ben  to  get 
you  one."  His  mother's  tone  implied  that  that 
was  all  that  would  be  necessary.  "  He  is  n't 
really  their  uncle,"  she  explained  to  Peggy-Elise. 
"  He 's  my  godfather,  but  he  adores  the  children 
—  he  has  really  spoiled  them."  She  said  it  com- 
placently. 

"  I  bet  he  'd  give  me  a  dog,"  Allyn  pursued,  his 
young  eyes  shrewdly  speculative. 


106  PEGGY-ELISE 

Mr.  Austen  had  been  silent  during  this  conver- 
sation. Peggy  observed  that  the  color  had  crept 
into  his  cheeks,  and  that  he  was  keeping  his  eyes 
lowered ;  she  did  not  understand  the  cause  of  his 
discomfort,  but  felt  intuitively  that  here  was  a 
"  skeleton  "  she  had  not  met. 

"  Here  's  a  dandy  picture  of  Theda  Bara,''  Isa- 
belle  announced,  looking  up  from  her  magazine. 
"  I  'm  crazy  about  her  and  Douglas  Fairbanks ! 
Don't  you  love  the  movies?  " 

"  What  is  that  — '  movies  '  ?  "  Peggy  inquired. 

Isabelle  was  dumb  with  astonishment. 

"  It 's  moving-pictures,  Peggy,"  Mr.  Austen 
elucidated. 

"  Oh  —  the  cinema.  Yes  —  I  like  to  go,  some- 
times." 

Her  cousin  stared  at  her  incredulously  for  a 
moment.  "  I  suppose  the  pictures  are  n't  very 
good  over  there,  now,  anyhow,  on  account  of  the 
war,''  she  said,  in  an  attempt  to  explain  Peggy's 
indifference. 

"  Are  things  as  bad  as  they  say,  over  there?  " 
Mrs.  Austen  asked.  "  Is  there  really  such  a 
shortage  of  food?  " 

"  There  is  a  shortage  of  everything,"  Peggy 
replied,  gravely. 

"Stt  —  stt!"  Isabelle  shook  her  head.  "I 
only  hope  America  won't  be  dragged  into  it !  " 

There  followed  some  superficial,  selfish  war 


PEGGY-ELISE  107 

talk  —  Red  Cross,  preparedness,  war  gardens. 
Listening,  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap, 
Peggy  realized  that  the  war  had  not  touched 
these  people;  she  wondered  if  it  had  come  no 
nearer  to  other  American  families.  Even  before 
her  departure,  all  eyes  had  begun  to  strain  anx- 
iously toward  America,  all  hearts  to  dream  of 
this  great  power  coming  magnificently,  eagerly 
to  help  them,  in  their  black  hour,  as  they  had 
once  helped  her.  Peggy  saw  that,  for  the  Aus- 
tens at  least,  the  war  was  in  the  background  — 
a  vast,  unsettling  force,  inconceivable,  remote. 

And  as  she  sat  there,  on  the  comfortable 
veranda,  and  looked  out  over  the  smooth  lawn  at 
the  peaceful  street,  beyond,  with  the  late  after- 
noon shadows  falling  obliquely  across  it,  the 
pleasant  clink  of  tea-cups  in  her  ears  —  as  she 
sat  there,  so  far  from  the  insecurity,  from  the 
ghastly  physical  evidences  of  the  conflict,  and 
heard  her  relatives  talking  carelessly  of  the  war 
—  except  as  self -concern  moved  them  —  Peggy 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  dropped  down,  not  in  an- 
other country  but  on  another  planet. 

"  The  Giants  won  again,"  Allyn  said ;  "  nine 
to  nothing." 

Leaning  forward,  their  faces  animated,  he  and 
his  father  excitedly  debated  the  National 
League's  chances  of  victory  in  the  coming  World 
Series  —  they  were  familiar  with  the  strengths 


108  PEGGY-ELISE 

and  weaknesses  of  each  team.  Allyn  wasn't 
sure  that  McQraw  had  been  wise  to  let  Marquard 
go  —  he  was  pitching  good  ball,  now,  with  the 
Brooklyns.  But  Mr.  Austen  said  McGraw  was 
right.  They  had  it  back  and  forth  —  it  was  a 
vital  question. 

"  And  then  you  criticize  me,"  Mrs.  Austen  said, 
leaning  over  and  flicking  her  husband  lightly  on 
the  knee,  with  her  finger,  "  because  I  'm  crazy 
about  cards ! " 

"That's  different.  You  aren't  interested  in 
anything  else  —  I  'm  interested  in  a  dozen 
things." 

She  drew  in  her  under  lip  and  regarded  him 
with  mock-penitence.  "  Is  n't  it  terrible !  " 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  a  'phone-doll,  Mother?  " 
Isabelle  asked,  at  this  juncture. 

"  A  what?  " 

"A  'phone-doll  —  one  of  those  Pompadour 
dolls,  you  know,  with  big  skirts  to  cover  the  tele- 
phone? They're  peachy!  Doris  has  a  beauty 
—  she  paid  forty  dollars  for  it.  I  wish  we  had 
one!" 

"I  suppose  we  could  find  cheaper  ones  than 
that." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  have  to  have  every  new- 
fangled thing  that  comes  out,"  Mr.  Austen  spoke 
irritably. 


PEGGY-ELISE  109 

"  It 's  a  miracle  you  don't  regard  the  telephone 
as  *  new-fangled  ' !  "  his  wife  retorted. 

"  The  telephone  is  a  necessity." 

Mrs.  Austen  sighed,  in  exasperation,  then 
caught  up  the  tiny  silver  bell,  on  the  end  of  the 
tea-wagon,  and  tinkled  it  sharply. 

The  maid  came  and  removed  the  tea  things. 
There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence.  Mr.  Aus- 
ten broke  it. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  an  evening  paper?  " 
he  asked,  handing  Peggy  the  Sun. 

She  accepted  it,  with  a  smile ;  but  she  bent  un- 
seeing eyes  upon  it,  while  the  loneliness  that  had 
increased  with  every  passing  moment  over- 
whelmed her.  Ever  since  she  had  left  Paris, 
anticipation  had  sustained  her.  She  had  hoped, 
against  the  rather  discouraging  matter-of-fact- 
ness  of  her  letters,  to  find  something  of  her  idol- 
ized mother  in  her  mother's  sister;  she  had 
longed  for  a  sister  to  adore,  in  Isabelle  —  they 
were  to  have  been  so  near  to  her  —  her  mother's 
own  people. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me," —  she  rose,  smiling 
bravely  — "  I  will  go  to  my  room  and  rest  for  a 
little  while."  Anne  followed  her. 

Mrs.  Austen,  who  had  been  reading  the  social 
items  in  the  Flushing  Local,  reached  over  and 
took  the  paper  Peggy  had  abandoned.  For  a 


110  PEGGY-ELISE 

while  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  her  amused 
ejaculations  and  the  crackling  of  newspapers. 

"  Do  you  think  she 's  pretty? "  Isabelle  in- 
quired suddenly,  with  a  tiny,  critical  lifting  of 
her  nostrils. 

Her  mother  looked  up  blankly  from  her  paper ; 
but  her  father  said : 

"  I  think  she 's  far  more  than  pretty  —  she 's 
beautiful." 

"  Beautiful !  "  Isabelle  exclaimed,  frowning. 

"  Yes  —  there 's  soul  in  her  face." 

Mrs.  Austen  began  to  hum  lightly. 

"  Well  — "  Isabelle  said,  at  length,  "  she 's  too 
serious  for  me !  " 

"  I  guess  she  could  be  —  lively  enough  if  she 
got  started,"  Allyn  put  in. 

Mrs.  Austen  continued  to  hum. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  AUSTEN,  dressed  for  business,  came 
into  his  study  one  morning,  some  weeks 
after  Peggy-Elise's  arrival,  and  found  her  hard 
at  work  at  the  little  typewriter  desk  in  the 
corner. 

She  had  not  heard  him  enter,  in  the  rattle  of 
the  machine.  He  stood,  for  a  moment,  looking 
at  her,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  his  head  bent.  The 
breeze,  blowing  in  through  the  open  window7  be- 
side her,  had  loosened  some  little  softly  curling 
hairs  all  over  her  head,  giving  it  an  adorably 
childlike  look,  in  piquant  contrast  to  the  ex- 
quisitely developed  shoulders  below.  Mr.  Aus- 
ten threw  back  his  head,  closed  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  bit  his  lip,  then  went  over  and  stood 
behind  Peggy's  chair,  and  read  a  line  of  what 
she  had  written. 

"  You  're  getting  to  be  quite  expert,  are  n't 
you?  "  There  was  fondness  in  his  voice. 

She  started. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  here !     Yes  —  I  am 

getting  along,"  she  answered,  recovering  herself; 

"  but  I  have  still  to  go  slowly  —  it  is  not  very 

difficult."     She  drew  from   the  typewriter  the 

in 


112  PEGGY-ELISE 

page  she  had  just  completed  and  separated  the 
sheets.  "  This  is  not  a  very  distinct  copy  — 
is  it?" 

"  The  carbon  's  worn  out  —  I  '11  get  some  new 
ones  —  it  doesn't  matter  for  this  stuff."  He 
picked  up  several  pages,  glanced  over  them,  and 
threw  them  down  on  the  desk.  He  began  to  pace 
the  floor. 

"  This  moving-picture  stuff  is  deadly  —  it 's 
very  kind  of  you  to  copy  it  for  me." 

"  I  think  you  must  know,  my  uncle/' —  she 
often  addressed  him  this  way  — "  that  it  makes 
me  very  happy  to  be  able  to  do  something  for 
you."  She  spoke  with  warm  gravity. 

"I  know  it's  deadly  stuff,"  he  repeated  bit- 
terly, "  but  it  "s  what  they  want,  and  I  'm  out 
for  the  money!  I  beg  your  pardon,  Peggy  — 
yes,  I  know  it  makes  you  happy.  You  are  one  of 
those  rare  people  with  unselfishness  in  their 
souls.  .  .  .  I  've  given  up  all  hope  of  doing  the 
work  I  know  I  could  do,  if  I  had  leisure  and  an 
easy  mind.  Anyhow,  the  best  years  of  my  life 
are  gone ! " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  best  years?" 
Peggy  asked,  turning  around. 

"  My  youth !  " 

The  girl  considered. 

"  But  do  you  not  think  the  best  years  are  the 
years  one  makes  the  best  use  of  —  whether  they 


PEGGY-ELISE  113 

come  early  or  late?  If  the  experience  one  needs, 
to  do  big  work,  comes  when  one  is  young,  it  may 
be  that  —  one  has  paid  almost  too  much  for  it. 
Do  you  not  think  so?  " 

Her  uncle  studied  her  for  a  while,  without  re- 
plying. At  length  he  said : 

"  You  are  a  very  comforting  person,  Peggy  — 
one  could  grow  very  attached  to  you  —  one  could 
become  very  dependent  upon  you."  He  spoke 
slowly,  reflectively. 

The  pleased  color  flashed  into  Peggy's  pale, 
softly  luminous  cheeks. 

Mr.  Austen  turned  away  abruptly,  seated  him- 
self at  his  desk,  and  drew  toward  him  the  sheaf 
of  bills  that  had  piled  up  steadily  since  the  first 
of  the  month.  Then  he  got  out  his  check-book 
and  began  to  write.  His  face  assumed  its  famil- 
iar air  of  rebellion. 

The  clatter  of  the  typewriter  was  drowned  sud- 
denly by  the  ringing  of  the  telephone,  just  out- 
side the  study  door ;  Peggy  answered  it.  "  It  is 
for  Aunt  Isabelle,"  she  said,  going  in  search  of 
her.  Mrs.  Austen,  who  had  heard  the  ring,  col- 
lided with  her  at  the  door  of  the  library.  The 
girl  returned  to  her  desk ;  but  she  could  not  work 
while  her  aunt  was  talking,  so  she  examined  the 
pages  she  had  typed,  for  errors. 

"What  are  you  going  to  see?"  Mrs.  Austen 
was  saying,  at  the  telephone.  "  Yes  .  .  .  yes, 


114  PEGGY-ELISE 

they  say  it's  wonderful.  .  .  Well,  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  possibly  manage  it  —  you  know  how  it 
is  when  you  have  a  family  on  your  hands.  It 's 
cook's  afternoon  off,  and  the  maid  is  home  —  sick 
sister,  I  believe.  .  .  .  Yes?  "  She  laughed  gaily. 
"  You  know  my  weakness !  I  can't  resist  an  in- 
ducement like  that !  Wait  a  minute  —  Peggy !  " 
she  called,  "  do  you  think  you  could  get  dinner, 
to-night?  " 

"  It  would  be  nothing  to  do,"  Peggy  said, 
smiling. 

Mrs.  Austen  turned  again  to  the  telephone. 
Presently  she  came  into  the  study. 

"  I  'm  going  to  town,"  she  announced  briskly, 
"to  have  luncheon  —  go  to  a  matinee  with  Flo 
Kipp."  Mr.  Austen  made  no  comment.  She 
turned  to  Peggy : 

"  Don't  go  to  any  bother  about  dinner.  There 
are  lots  of  canned  things  —  give  them  some  of 
that  tongue  —  it 's  delicious  —  and  some  aspara- 
gus tips.  If  you  want  anything,  you  can  tele- 
phone for  it." 

Her  niece  nodded. 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  enough  to  feed  an  army." 
She  laughed,  but  with  a  sudden  sadness  in  her 
heart,  as  she  thought  of  the  hungry  millions  she 
had  so  recently  left  behind. 

Mrs.  Austen  folded  her  arms  and  addressed  her 
husband. 


PEGGY-ELISE  115 

"  I  want  some  money."  She  drew  in  her  lips, 
bringing  into  prominence  two  flanking  dimples. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"How  much?" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  shrugged. 

"  Twenty-five  dollars." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  twenty-five 
dollars?  " 

"  Play  bridge,  darling,"  she  said,  with  dia- 
bolical sweetness.  "  Don't  go,"  she  commanded, 
as  Peggy  rose  to  leave.  "  We  always  have  these 
little  discussions." 

Mr.  Austen  picked  up  the  bills  he  had  laid 
aside;  his  hands  trembled. 

"  Here 's  a  bill," —  he  flicked  it  with  his  hand 
— "from  Loennecker  and  Dreyer's  —  seventy- 
three  dollars  —  for  groceries  —  and  not  an  item 
on  it!  Hereafter,  I  want  an  itemized  bill  — 
I  've  told  you  this,  before." 

"  It 's  their  custom  to  send  out  their  bills  that 
way  —  I  'm  not  going  to  demand  an  itemized  bill 
from  people  like  that !  They  're  absolutely  re- 
liable —  they  're  the  best  firm  in  town." 

"  The  most  expensive,"  he  snapped.  "  They 
may  be  reliable,  but  every  firm  makes  mistakes. 
How  do  you  know  that  you  are  n't  being  charged 
two  or  three  times  for  the  same  thing?  " 

"  They  send  a  slip  with  every  order,  I  believe," 
she  said  coldly. 


116  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Well,  where  are  those  slips?  I  want  to  see 
them." 

"  I  've  told  Minnie  to  save  them  —  I  don't 
know  whether  she  does  or  not." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  you  're  paying  for 
things?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"You  don't  suppose  they'd  give  them  to  me 
any  cheaper  if  I  asked  the  price,  do  you?  " 

"No  —  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  occur  to  you 
that  you  might  be  ordering  things  we  really 
couldn't  afford.  It  seems  to  me  that  seventy- 
three  dollars  is  outrageous  for  one  month's 
groceries ! " 

"  They  keep  the  finest  grades  of  everything. 
I  know  their  prices  are  high,  but  everybody 
trades  there."  This  remark  was  not  meant  to  be 
as  inclusive  as  it  sounded ;  it  was  meant,  in  fact, 
to  be  extremely  exclusive. 

"  It  would  be  much  better,  I  should  think,  any- 
way, if  you  went  and  did  your  marketing  in- 
stead of  ordering  everything  by  telephone  —  you 
leave  it  to  them,  and  they  send  you  the  most  ex- 
pensive brands  they  carry.  And  you  never  get 
as  good  fruit  and  vegetables  as  if  you  selected 
them  yourself." 

"  You  're  perfectly  ridiculous,  Bob !  Nobody 
does  it!  Besides,  I  have  something  else  to  do 


PEGGY-ELISE  117 

with  my  time."  She  put  her  hands  up  and  eased 
the  weight  of  her  heavy,  live  hair. 

"  If  you  would  permit  me,  Aunt  Isabelle," 
Peggy  said  a  little  timidly,  "  I  would  love  to  do 
it  for  you.  Perhaps  I  could  find  cheaper  shops, 
where  things  are  just  as  good,  and  where  you  do 
not  have  to  pay  for  the  name  —  it  is  the  same  in 
Paris.  And  it  is  better,  too,  do  you  not  think  so, 
to  pay  cash?  You  can  keep  track  of  the  money, 
and  they  cannot  cheat  you." 

Mrs.  Austen  shook  her  head. 

"That  would  be  delightful  when  there  was 
cash,  but  what  would  we  do  when  there  was  n't? 
Loennecker  and  Dreyer  have  always  been  very 
agreeable  about  waiting  for  their  money  —  I 
wouldn't  deal  anywhere  else." 

"  They  ought  not  to  have  to  wait  for  their 
money,"  her  husband  declared,  folding  a  bill  into 
an  envelope  and  drawing  the  ink-well  toward 
him.  "On  five  hundred  dollars  a  month  we 
should  be  able  to  pay  every  bill  and  save  some- 
thing." 

Peggy  did  the  sum  rapidly  into  francs. 

"  But  you  mean  you  have  two  thousand  francs 
a  month?"  Her  excited  tones  expressed  incre- 
dulity. "  It  is  a  fortune !  " 

"  It  is  .  >  a  fortune  in  America,"  her  aunt  said 
curtly,  sni  'ng.  "Besides,  your  uncle  is  ro- 


118  PEGGY-ELISE 

mancing  —  it 's  only  three  hundred  and  fifty  — 
the  rest  is  uncertain." 

"  Oh,  I  would  love  to  have  so  much  money  to 
handle !  " —  Peggy's  eyes  sparkled ;  her  French 
genius  for  economy  longed  to  work  a  miracle  in 
this  badly  managed  household.  To  her,  it 
seemed  that  her  uncle  ought  to  be  a  rich  man. 
She  began  to  understand  something  of  his  prob- 
lem, and  of  his  consequent  bitterness  and  dis- 
couragement. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  wish  you  had  it,"  Mrs. 
Austen  said  wearily ;  "  you  'd  soon  be  sick  of  it !  " 

"  Maybe  so,"  the  girl  agreed.  "  But  at  least 
I  would  have  the  satisfaction,  first,  to  go  into  the 
kitchen  and  teach  that  cook  not  to  be  so  waste- 
ful. It  is  a  crime !  Yesterday,  when  I  went  out 
to  iron  a  blouse,  she  was  peeling  potatoes,  and 
she  was  cutting  off  that  much !  "  She  indicated 
a  half-inch,  on  her  little  finger. 

"  My  dear  girl," —  her  aunt  gave  a  short  laugh 
— "if  you  interfered  with  the  cook  she  would 
leave." 

"  Then  she  could  leave,"  Peggy  said  decisively. 
"  I  would  take  her  place,  myself." 

"  That 's  the  only  way  to  prevent  waste,  of 
course,"  Mr.  Austen  said,  sealing  the  last  en- 
velope and  rising. 

"  That 's  what  you  'd  like  me  to  do,  is  n't  it, 
pet?  "  His  wife  flashed  him  a  mocking  smile. 


PEGGY-ELISE  119 

"  Well,  I  have  no  intention  whatsoever  of  being 
a  household  drudge  and  spending  the  rest  of  my 
days  in  a  kitchen  —  I  get  little  enough  out  of 
life,  as  it  is !  " 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  see  you  spend  your  life  in  a  kitchen! 
But  I  think  if  you  gave  a  little  attention  to  that 
end  of  the  house  you  might  be  able  to  reduce  our 
living  to  a  more  economical  basis.  It  would  be 
to  your  own  interest  in  the  end  —  even  if  you 
don't  care  about  my  side  of  it,"  he  concluded 
bitterly. 

"Let  the  future  take  care  of  itself,"  she  re- 
torted coldly.  "  I  mean  to  enjoy  myself  now." 
She  put  out  her  hand.  "  You  'd  better  make  that 
thirty  dollars." 

Her  husband  stood,  irresolute,  for  a  moment, 
then  he  sat  down  and  made  out  a  check.  He 
gave  it  to  her  without  looking  up.  A  burden 
seemed  to  have  settled  on  his  shoulders;  they 
sagged  dejectedly;  he  looked  older  and  very 
tired. 

When  he  had  left  for  the  city,  Mrs.  Austen 
said  to  Peggy : 

"  We  always  have  a  scene  like  this,  the  first  of 
the  month.  He 's  forever  talking  about  living 
on  a  simpler  scale,  but  he  'd  be  the  first  one  to 
protest.  I  've  proposed,  a  half  dozen  times,  get- 
ting an  apartment  in  town;  but  your  uncle 


120  PEGGY-ELISE 

doesn't  believe  in  raising  children  in  the  city. 
It's  ridiculous  —  you  see  just  as  healthy  chil- 
dren there  as  you  do  anywhere !  " 

The  girl  wondered  if  her  aunt  really  did  n't 
understand  that  the  "  simpler  scale  "  referred  to 
the  carelessness  and  extravagance  in  every  di- 
rection. 

When  Mrs.  Austen  went  away  to  dress,  Peggy 
drew  an  envelope  from  her  belt  and  pressed  it, 
breathlessly,  to  her  lips;  it  was  a  letter  from 
Venable  —  the  first  since  her  departure.  It  had 
come  that  morning,  but  she  had  waited  until 
she  could  be  alone  to  read  it.  In  her  nervous 
eagerness,  she  tore  the  envelope  to  pieces  and, 
with  hammering  pulses,  shook  open  the  page. 

It  was  a  brief  letter.  When  she  had  finished 
it,  the  radiance  had  gone  out  of  her  face  and  a 
sick  feeling  surged  over  her,  with  each  beat  of 
her  heart.  Venable  had  missed  her,  it  seemed  — 
was  desolate  without  her;  yet  in  some  subtle 
fashion  he  conveyed  to  her  mind  that  this  feeling 
was'an  aftermath  —  that,  since  she  had  refused 
to  remain  writh  him,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
regard  the  episode  as  closed.  He  said  nothing 
about  his  previously  expressed  intention  to  come 
to  America.  He  spoke  of  her  voice,  and  hoped 
that  she  would  succeed  in  getting  a  hearing  — 
he  opined  that  this  was  all  that  would  be  neces- 
sary to  insure  her  future. 


PEGGY-ELISE  121 

A  little  cynical  smile  twisted  her  lips  at  his 
mention  of  her  voice  —  it  had  reminded  her  of 
her  first  Sunday  in  America.  In  her  own  coun- 
try, Sunday  was  a  joyous  day,  a  sociable  day,  a 
day  of  delightful  excursioning,  when  the  weather 
was  fine ;  and  she  had  come  downstairs  that  first 
Sunday  morning,  happily  expectant.  She  had 
found  the  family  irritable  and  touchy.  Mrs. 
Austen  had  amazed  her  by  stating  violently  that 
she  "  loathed  "  Sundays.  After  breakfast  they 
sat  and  read  the  papers  for  hours,  Isabelle  and 
Allyn  having  a  highly  recriminatory  wrangle 
over  the  possession  of  the  illustrated  supplement. 

By  degrees,  (hey  dispersed.  A  Sunday  quiet 
brooded  over  the  house.  There  was  no  one  on 
the  ground  floor,  except  Peggy  herself.  She 
went  to  the  piano,  and  began  to  try  over  some 
songs  she  foun:"!  there.  She  sang  softly,  but  her 
pure,  resonant  t?nes  carried  to  every  part  of  the 
house.  She  was  in  the  middle  of  "  Le  Charme," 
when  Isabelle  came  into  the  room.  She  did  n't 
know  Peggy  could  play,  she  had  said,  interrupt- 
ing her,  and  would  she  play  over  some  accom- 
paniments for  her?  Isabelle,  it  had  developed, 
was  studying  for  a  grand  opera  career.  Peggy 
had  quietly  put  aside  the  unfinished  song.  She 
was  shocked,  not  only  by  her  cousin's  rudeness, 
but  by  her  very  obvious  jealousy.  She  had  not 
sung,  since. 


122  PEGGY-ELISE 

She  read  Venable's  letter  again,  dwelling 
avidly  on  the  only  lines  that  held  comfort  for 
her :  "  I  can't  work  —  I  miss  the  inspiration  of 
you."  She  knew  this  could  be  true,  and  she 
found  a  gleam  of  happiness  in  the  tie  it  implied. 
For  a  long  time  she  sat,  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knee,  thinking.  It  was,  really,  a  passionate 
search  for  arguments  to  justify  the  attitude  of 
the  man  she  loved;  she  found  one  in  the  scene 
she  had  just  witnessed  between  her  aunt  and 
uncle.  From  this,  and  the  conversation  of  the 
women  she  had  met  in  the  Austen  home,  she  in- 
ferred that  the  average  American  woman  was 
neither  trained  nor  inclined  to  economize  and  to 
unselfishly  bear  her  share  of  the  marriage  bur- 
dens. Venable,  an  American,  knew  this  too,  and 
was  perhaps  influenced  by  the  knowledge.  Mar- 
riage would  mean  double  failure  for  him  —  fail- 
ure as  an  artist  and  as  a  husband.  But  Peggy 
knew  that  he  knew  she  was  different ;  she  was  too 
wretchedly  logical  to  have  the  comfort  of  a  delu- 
sion. The  truth  was  that  Venable's  ideals  did 
not  measure  up  to  her  own.  First  and  last,  it- 
was  a  woman's  physical  attractiveness  that  mat- 
tered to  him ;  since  this  was  to  be  enjoyed  with- 
out marriage  —  why  marry?  Character  and  in- 
telligence he  valued,  she  knew,  but  he  lacked  the 
fineness  to  appreciate  love.  She  went  back  to 
her  typewriter  with  a  heavy  heart. 


PEGGY-ELISE  123 

"  What  are  we  going  to  have  for  dinner?  " 
Anne  inquired. 

Peggy,  allowing  for  the  hindrances  that  await 
one  in  a  strange  kitchen,  had  gone  out  early  in 
the  afternoon  to  look  the  ground  over. 

"  I  don't  know,  yet,"  she  said,  fastening  her- 
self into  a  blue  and  white  checked  apron  she  had 
found  hanging  on  the  door. 

"  There  was  almost  a  whole  roast  of  beef 
left  from  dinner,  last  night  —  I  think  I  shall 
make  a  ragout.  Does  your  father  like  a  rag- 
out? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is?  " 

"  I  think  you  call  it  a  —  stew." 

"  Oh,  he  loves  it !  But  cook  won't  make  it  — 
it 's  too  much  trouble.  He  likes  it  brown." 

"But  of  course!"  Peggy  opened  the  refrig- 
erator, and  then  stood  regarding  the  plate  in  her 
hand  in  amazement.  "  Where  is  the  rest  of  it?  " 
She  held  out  a  platter,  on  which  lay  the  ribs  and 
tail-end  of  a  large  roast. 

"  Servants,"  Anne  said  laconically. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  they  would  dare  eat 
all  the  beautiful  heart  of  that  roast?  Why  — 
there  is  nothing  left !  " 

In  the  same  way,  when  she  looked  for  some 
left-over  bits  of  vegetables  for  her  stew,  she  could 
find  nothing. 

"  Oh  —  they   never   save  anything  like  that. 


124  PEGGY-ELISE 

What  do  you  want?  "  Anne  trotted  toward  the 
pantry.  Peggy  followed. 

"  Some  carrots  and  peas." 

"  They  're  on  the  top  shelf  —  there." 

Peggy  reached  up  and  selected  what  she 
wanted,  at  the  same  time  taking  in  the  rows  of 
many-shaped  glass  jars,  filled  with  vegetables, 
fruits,  and  potted  meats,  the  majority  of  them 
bearing  familar  French  or  Italian  labels.  She 
sighed,  thinking  what  they  must  have  cost  here 
in  America.  Then  she  went  back  and  continued 
her  preparations  for  dinner. 

When  Mr.  Austen  came  home  he  went  out  to 
the  kitchen.  Anne,  on  her  way  to  the  dining- 
room  with  some  plates  of  salad,  stopped  to  give 
him  an  adoring  kiss.  Peggy  was  at  the  sink, 
draining  the  water  from  some  string  beans;  she 
threw  her  uncle  a  gay  smile  of  welcome  over  her 
shoulder.  He  looked  tired,  and  his  face  still 
held  traces  of  the  morning's  bitterness  and  de- 
feat, though  it  had  brightened  a  little  under 
Anne's  caress. 

"  Can't  I  do  something?  " 

"There  is  nothing  to  do,  mon  oncle.  Anne 
is  setting  the  table,  and  I  have  only  to  take  up 
dinner,"  Peggy  said,  in  the  high  good  humor  of 
the  cook  who  knows  that  her  meal  has  turned 
out  well. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  won't  mind  if  I  stand  here 


PEGGY-ELISE  125 

and  just  watch  you,"  he  asked,  with  a  winning, 
half-wistful  smile. 

"I  should  like  that!" 

He  crossed  over  and  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his. 

"Would  you?" 

"  Of  course !  "  she  said  tranquilly.  But  her 
sensitive  face  betrayed  confusion  as  she  met  his 
eyes  —  they  were  compellingly  tender.  He  stood 
very  close,  looking  down  at  her  with  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  sweetness. 

"  You  are  lovely,  to-night !  "  he  said,  in  a  low, 
unsteady  voice.  "  You  are  lovely,  lovely !  " 

She  disengaged  her  hand  gently,  and  pushed 
back  a  strand  of  hair  from  her  temple ;  there  was 
nothing  to  indicate  that  she  had  not  freed  her 
hand  for  that  sole  purpose. 

"  I  am  glad  if  you  find  me  lovely."  The  frank 
pleasure  in  her  voice  held  no  hint  of  coquetry. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  that  we  were  to  talk  French 
when  we  were  alone?  " 

Mr.  Austen  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"  I  'm  afraid  the  only  French  I  can  think  of  to- 
night would  not  carry  me  far  —  or  — "  he  said 
slowly,  turning  away — "perhaps  it  would  carry 
me  too  far." 

Peggy  removed  her  apron. 

"  Will  you  take  in  this  dish,  my  uncle?  Dinner 
is  ready." 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  morning  along  in  November,  Mr.  Austen 
came  out  of  the  house  on  his  way  to  town, 
and  caught  sight  of  Peggy  raking  up  the  crisp, 
brown  leaves  that  strewed  the  lawn.  He  stood 
and  watched  her,  loving  the  picture  she  made. 

The  day  was  clear,  still,  under  a  dazzling  sun- 
shine. The  only  sounds  were  the  rhythmic  swish 
of  leaves  and  Peggy's  vibrant  voice  lifted  in  a  gay 
old  French  song.  Her  lithe  body  bent  with 
graceful  freedom  to  the  pull  of  the  rake.  She  had 
put  on  Anne's  scarlet  chasseur  cap,  and  her  skin 
was  luminous  against  its  vivid  folds.  She  had, 
somehow,  the  prankish,  elusive  look  of  a  wood 
nymph  who  had  strayed  into  civilized  haunts, 
had  found  there  a  strange,  diverting  toy,  and  was 
having  great  sport  with  it.  As  he  watched  her, 
Mr.  Austen  felt  that  if  he  stirred  she  would 
vanish  behind  one  of  the  old  maples  that  shaded 
the  lawn. 

"Bon  jour,  mon  oncle!"  she  called  blithely, 
as  she  saw  him  coming  down  the  path. 
"Comment  ga  va?" 

"I  am  in  excellent  health,  thank  you."  He 
smiled,  for  her  mood  was  infectious.  "Only, 

126 


PEGGY-ELISE  127 

it  seems  to  me  that  young  ladies  of  refinement 
don't  make  use  of  that  particular  form  in  in- 
quiring about  their  uncles'  health,"  he  teased. 

"  It  is  true  —  but  I  am  not  refined,  this  morn- 
ing!" she  laughed.  "I  am  only  happy." 

"  Yes  —  you  seem  remarkably  happy." 

"  I  have  had  a  letter ! "     Her  eyes  danced. 

"Yes  —  I  know,"  he  said,  glancing  down. 
Presently  he  looked  up  again,  with  a  rather 
forced  smile.  "  Are  n't  you  going  to  town,  this 
morning?  " 

"  No.  Mr.  Weller  does  n't  need  me  until 
Thursday." 

"  There 's  another  case,"  Mr.  Austen  flung 
out,  "where  an  artist  has  been  sacrificed  for 
his  family.  With  his  gift,  he  ought  not  to  be 
doing  magazine  illustrating.  Of  course,  his 
wife  is  a  very  nice  woman,  but  that  doesn't 
alter  the  fact  that  the  care  of  her  and  the  two 
children  has  cost  him  a  career ! " 

"I  think  he  does  not  want  the  fact  altered 
—  he  is  very  happy." 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"good-by,  Peggy." 

She  leaned  on  the  rake  handle  and  watched 
until  he  turned  into  the  street;  he  did  not  look 
back.  She  began  to  rake  again,  lifting  the 
leaves  into  a  pile.  She  knew  what  had  been  in 
his  mind.  When  she  had  announced  her  inten- 


128  PEGGY-ELISE 

tion,  the  previous  fortnight,  to  go  to  work,  he 
had  tried  to  dissuade  her,  arguing  that  it  was 
not  necessary.  She,  however,  had  seen  clearly 
that  her  ambition  to  become  a  singer  could 
never  be  realized  in  her  aunt's  home  —  she 
could  not  even  practise;  they  would  feel  that 
she  was  usurping  Isabelle's  prerogatives  —  but 
she  could  not  leave  without  money.  Mrs. 
Austen  had  raised  her  eyebrows  when  she 
learned  that  her  niece  intended  to  pose  for  il- 
lustrations —  it  was  n't  very  desirable  work, 
she  thought  —  but  if  Peggy  felt  she  had  to  earn 
something —  It  had  ended  with  Mr.  Austen 
speaking  to  his  friend  Weller. 

The  girl  stopped  raking  for  a  moment  to 
push  the  hair  out  of  her  eyes.  Some  crows 
cawed  overhead,  their  flight  shadowed  on  the 
yellowing  grass.  Her  heart  swelled  as  she 
watched  them  dip  out  of  sight.  Somehow,  this 
beauty  of  black,  flying  birds  doubled  the  joy 
that  had  come  to  her  with  Venable's  letter  that 
morning,  and  she  flung  wide  her  arms,  threw 
back  her  head  —  her  eyes  closed  —  and  drew  a 
great,  shivering,  ecstatic  breath. 

It  was  a  short  letter,  like  the  first  one,  nor 
was  there  any  tenderness  in  it.  It  was,  in  fact, 
full  of  savage  protest  against  existence,  of  help- 
less rage  at  his  inability  to  work  —  petulant, 
illogical,  glum.  He  was  sending  her  a  copy  of 


PEGGY-ELISE  129 

the  Revue  —  they  had  reproduced  the  Phryne 
in  it  —  last  decent  thing  he  would  ever  do,  prob- 
ably. 

Peggy  had  smiled  very  tenderly  as  she  read  it, 
her  eyes  sparkling,  her  heart  beating  wildly. 
In  every  word,  she  felt  his  need  of  her,  his  lone- 
liness for  her. 

A  sudden  ache  to  see  him  swept  over  her.  .  .  . 
It  would  be  wonderful  to  swing  along  the  road, 
beside  him,  for  miles,  this  glorious  morning, 
to- 

"  Oh,  Peggy !  "  Mrs.  Austen  called,  out  of  the 
front  window,  "  come  upstairs  a  minute,  will 
you?" 

She  was  standing  beside  her  bed,  opening  a 
cardboard  box,  as  her  niece  entered. 

"  I  love  your  room,  Aunt  Isabelle,"  the  girl 
said,  looking  about  the  sun-flooded  chamber, 
with  its  hangings  of  a  quaint  block  chintz,  in 
which  heavy  old  pinks,  parrot  greens,  and  dull 
blues  blended  charmingly  on  a  rich  cream 
ground. 

"  I  hate  the  furniture !  "  Mrs.  Austen  made 
a  face  at  the  curly-maple  bedroom  suite. 
"  I  'm  going  to  get  one  of  those  cream- 
enameled  Chippendale  sets,  with  cane  me- 
dallions —  they  're  the  rage,  now  —  Mrs.  Ap- 
gar  has  one  in  French  gray.  Want  to  see 
something  pretty?" 


130  PEGGY-ELISE 

She  held  up,  against  herself,  a  blouse  of 
webby  linen,  exquisitely  embroidered  and  hem- 
stitched, with  insets  of  filet. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  Peggy  exclaimed,  with  the 
Frenchwoman's  eye  for  fine  needlework. 

She  held  up  another.  It  was  even  sheerer, 
and  marvelously  tucked.  The  girl  examined  it, 
enthusiastically.  Her  aunt  opened  a  bureau 
drawer  and  began  to  make  room  for  them. 

"  Your  uncle  will  have  a  fit  when  he  gets  the 
bill !  If  I  win  at  bridge,  next  Saturday,  I  mean 
to  pay  for  them  myself.  I  suppose  I  should  n't 
have  bought  them,"  she  went  on,  "but  I  met 
Mrs.  Donnelly  at  the  counter,  and  I  couldn't 
resist  getting  a  couple,  too.  That  one  you  have 
was  twenty-five,  and  this  was  forty." 

"Dollars  —  you  mean?  But,  do  you  —  are 
they  worth  it?"  She  hesitated.  "If  you 
would  like  to  return  these,  I  could  make  you 
some  —  I  can  embroider  quite  well.  It  seems 
too  bad  to  pay  so  much  for  something  that  will 
last  only  a  little  while." 

"My  dear  —  if  I  start  skimping  and  trying 
to  economize  on  clothes,  I  '11  always  have  to  — 
I  don't  want  to  give  your  uncle  any  bad 
habits ! "  she  replied,  her  eyes  dancing. 

Unaccountably,  Peggy  suddenly  felt  that  she 
did  not  know  her  aunt  at  all;  she  had  a  vague 
impression  that  her  flippancy  and  heartlessness 


PEGGY-ELISE  131 

were  —  somehow  —  a  mask;  but  this  idea  con- 
fused her  previous  conception  of  her  only  fleet- 
ingly. 

Isabelle  had  come  in  during  their  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Well  —  when  /  marry  I  won't  have  to  train 
my  husband,  because  I  shall  pick  out  a  rich  one  I 
A  man  ought  to  give  you  everything  when  you 
give  him  —  everything !  "  She  crossed  to  the 
mirror.  "  I  did  n't  get  my  hair  up  right,  this 
morning,"  she  scowled,  pulling  out  hairpins. 

"But  what  do  you  mean  by  '  every  thing '?" 
Peggy  inquired  amusedly.  "  I  cannot  see  that 
you  give  anything,  if  there  are  servants  to  do 
all  the  work  and  you  have  only  to  walk  into  the 
shops  and  buy  what  you  like?  " 

Isabelle  turned  round  from  the  mirror,  where 
she  had  been  admiring  herself,  her  shimmering 
golden  hair  caught  loosely  in  her  hand. 

"  Why  —  I  'd  give  —  I'd  give  him  —  myself !  " 
She  hesitated  over  the  word,  blushing. 

"  But  is  that  more  than  he  gives  you?  "  her 
cousin  asked  frankly.  "And,  in  addition,  he 
takes  care  of  you." 

Isabelle  flared  up  at  this  attack  on  the  most 
sacred  —  and  senseless  —  tenet  of  her  sex. 

"  That  must  be  a  French  idea ! " 

"  I  think  France  had  not  the  honor  first  to 
perceive  that  truth/'  Peggy  returned  pleasantly. 


132  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Isabelle,  your  hair  is  all  split  at  the  ends !" 
Mrs.  Austen  said,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
conversation.  "  Turn  around !  You  're  getting 
a  wrinkle  from  frowning!  We'll  go  in  town, 
Tuesday,  and  have  a  massage  and  manicure,  and 
get  that  new  specialist  the  Donnelly s  were 
speaking  of  —  what 's  his  name?  —  to  treat  your 
hair." 

"  Doris  says  he  's  wonderful.  Gee !  I  wish  I 
could  have  a  new  fall  suit ! " 

"  I  've  told  you  to  stop  saying  *  Gee ! ' 
What 's  the  matter  with  your  brown  one?  " 

"That  old  thing!" 

"  It  was  new  last  spring." 

"  I  'm  sick  of  it." 

Her  mother's  raised  eyebrows  implied  not  dis- 
approval, but  impotence. 

"  You  ought  to  see  Doris's  new  outfit  — 
mauve  broadcloth  and  moleskin  —  she  paid  a 
hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  for  it." 

"  Well, —  you  '11  have  to  hurry  and  marry  that 
rich  man,"  Mrs.  Austen  said,  laughing. 

Isabelle  picked  up  a  pair  of  silver-handled 
scissors  from  the  bureau  and  went  to  a  corner 
closet. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Borrow  that  Poiret  label  from  the  cloak 
Uncle  gave  you,  and  put  it  in  my  new  one  — 
I'  m  going  to  wear  it  to  the  opera  to-morrow 


PEGGY-ELISE  133 

night.     I  '11  put  it  back,"   Isabelle  said,  snip- 
ping. 

Her  mother  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  love  that !  " 

"  The  fire  feels  good,  these  nights,  does  n't 
it?  "  Mrs.  Austen  said,  coming  into  the  library 
and  settling  herself  in  a  big  chair,  with  the 
paper. 

Peggy  nodded,  smiling.  She  was  curled  up  in 
a  corner  of  the  great  leather  divan,  knitting  by 
the  light  of  the  crackling  log  fire.  Her  steel 
needles  made  red  flashes  in  the  dim  library, 
lighted  only  by  the  amber-shaded  lamp  on  the 
long  study  table.  She  was  lost  in  dreams. 
Venable's  letter,  that  morning,  had  brought  her 
more  than  the  joy  of  his  need  of  her;  it  had  re- 
vived her  amour  propre  that  had  languished  since 
the  receipt  of  his  first  letter.  All  day  long,  a 
mounting,  delicious  sense  of  power  had  thrilled 
her.  Having  examined  herself  in  the  mirror, 
she  felt  dissatisfied  —  this  was  not  the  creature 
who  charmed  Venable,  in  her  thoughts.  The  re- 
sult was  inevitable,  to  feminine  psychology. 
She  took  a  slow,  luxurious  bath  —  very  differ- 
ent from  the  unimaginative  affair  with  which 
she  had  begun  the  day;  shampooed  her  hair; 
buffered  her  dainty  nails.  Then  she  had  cased 
her  fragrant,  satiny,  joyous  body  in  the  finest 


134  PEGGY-ELISE 

garments  she  possessed.  Her  black  gown,  with 
its  demure,  white  cuffs  and  childish,  round 
collar  emphasized  her  pale,  sparkling  beauty. 
In  some  subtle  fashion,  the  process  had  meta- 
morphosed her;  when  she  had  looked  in  the 
mirror  again,  she  had  wished  that  Venable  could 
see  her.  She  was  living  over  the  last  time  he 
had  caught  her  in  his  arms,  when  her  aunt  said : 

"  Is  that  the  sock  you  started  last  night?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mrs.  Austen  shook  her  head. 

"  You  work  very  fast.  Knitting  would  make 
me  so  nervous  I  should  go  mad!"  She  threw 
aside  her  paper  and  opened  a  magazine. 

Peggy  studied  her  —  she  thought  she  looked 
strikingly  handsome,  in  the  Antwerp  blue  geor- 
gette gown  she  wore  —  and  very  young.  She 
never  could  grow  accustomed  to  her  aunt's 
youthf ulness ;  she  wondered  if  it  were  due  to  her 
refusal  to  be  touched  by  responsibility. 

"  Bob,"  Mrs.  Austen  called  in  to  her  husband, 
who  was  working  in  his  study,  "  what  time  did 
the  Hasbroucks  say  they  'd  be  over?  " 

"  They  did  n't  say,"  Mr.  Austen  replied,  in  a 
preoccupied  voice. 

The  door-bell  rang. 

"  Bob,  will  you  go  to  the  door?  I  let  Minnie 
go  to  prayer-meeting  —  she's  very  religious! 
Your  uncle  has  a  terrible  crush  on  Mrs. 


PEGGY-ELISE  135 

Hasbrouck,"  she  confided  to  Peggy,  when  her 
husband  was  out  of  earshot.  "  The  Doctor 's  a 
divvle !  "  she  added,  her  eyes  dancing.  "  I  had 
a  wild  experience  with  him,  once !  Shh !  "  she 
cautioned,  as  the  girl  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak. 

Mrs.  Hasbrouck  came  in,  laughing,  followed 
by  her  husband  and  Mr.  Austen.  She  was  short 
and  softly  plump,  with  a  dazzling  sort  of  pretti- 
ness.  Her  black  hair  was  tossed  up  on  top  of 
her  head,  loosely,  and  provocative  curls  strayed 
over  her  temples  and  small  ears.  Flashing  jet 
earrings  swung  from  their  rouged  lobes.  She 
was  heavily  made  up,  even  to  the  rather  in- 
adequate eyelashes  that  fringed  her  snapping 
brown  eyes.  She  was  vivacious,  and  she  bub- 
bled with  gossip  and  amusingly  sophisticated 
small  talk.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who 
unfailingly  make  a  brilliant  entrance. 

When  the  introductions  were  over,  she 
dropped  into  a  chair  beside  Mrs.  Austen. 
While  they  were  talking,  she  threw  frequent 
glances  at  Mr.  Austen,  who  leaned  against  the 
mantel-piece,  chatting  with  her  husband.  He 
caught  her  eye,  once,  and  smiled.  Peggy  hap- 
pened to  look  up  at  the  moment,  and  her  aunt 
gestured  humorously  with  her  eyebrow,  toward 
Mr.  Austen.  Several  times,  Doctor  Hasbrouck 
turned  an  intent,  swift  gaze  upon  Peggy.  Pres- 


136  PEGGY-ELISE 

ently,  he  came  over  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Knitting  for  the  Red  Cross?  " 

"  No  —  for  a  friend." 

"  Noticed  that,  Austen?  "  the  doctor  inquired. 
"All  the  charming,  pretty  girls  are  knitting  for 
friends  —  only  the  homely  ones  are  working  for 
the  Red  Cross." 

Mrs.  Hasbrouck  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
word,  glanced  at  the  faces  of  the  two  men,  and 
flashed  Peggy  a  brilliant,  antagonistic  smile. 

"  I  do  not  object  that  you  stretch  the  truth 
a  little,  to  be  agreeable,''  the  girl  said,  with  a 
pretty  air  of  raillery,  looking  up  from  her  work 
into  the  doctor's  magnetic  blue  eyes,  in  which 
ardent  admiration  smoldered. 

"  I  'd  stretch  it  even  farther  than  that !  "  he 
laughed. 

"  Docteur,  I  am  sure  of  it ! "  Peggy  affirmed 
vivaciously. 

Her  uncle,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin 
resting  on  his  knuckles,  had  never  taken  his  eyes 
from  her  face.  This  self-possessed,  bantering 
Peg&.Y —  with  whom  the  doctor  wras  obviously 
already  smitten  —  was  a  new  and  fascinating 
person  to  him.  He  wondered  if  she  found  Has- 
brouck attractive  —  he  studied  him  from  this 
angle.  He  was  thick-set,  vital  —  women  liked 
that.  It  struck  him,  suddenly,  that  the  doctor 
was  very  good-looking,  after  an  irregular  fashion, 


PEGGY-ELISE  137 

and  there  was  something  very  attractive  about  his 
big,  humorous  mouth,  with  its  perpetual  quirk 
at  the  corners.  Peggy  probably  liked  him.  .  .  . 

"  You  know,  Austen,  I  would  n't  be  surprised 
if  America  were  in  this  war,  by  spring?  " 

"  Carter  Hasbrouck !  —  you  pessimist !  "  his 
wife  exclaimed.  "  It 's  much  safer  to  stay 
neutral ! " 

"But  how  can  you?"  Peggy  said  earnestly. 
"  Even  if  America  does  not  resent  the  sinking 
of  her  ships,  she  cannot  remain  neutral  when 
there  is  right  on  one  side  and  wrong  on  the 
other!" 

"That's  right!  That's  right!"  the  doctor 
agreed.  "  You  're  not  a  pacifist,  are  you !  " 

"  They  are  rabbits !  " 

The  men  laughed ;  Mrs.  Austen  appeared  to  be 
mildly  amused;  Mrs.  Hasbrouck  smiled  on  the 
girl,  with  coldly  glittering  eyes. 

"You  are  —  French,  aren't  you?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"  I  am  half  American,"  Peggy  corrected. 

"  If  war  breaks  out,  I  'm  going  over,"  the  doc- 
tor declared. 

"  But  why  do  you  wait?  "  Peggy's  eyes  were 
mischievous. 

"  Anxious  to  get  rid  of  me?  "  he  interrogated, 
with  a  humorous  twitch  of  his  mouth. 

"  But    no !  "    she    laughed.     "  You    are    very 


138  PEGGY-ELISE 

agreeable,  even  if  you  are  absurd.  Will  you  get 
me  that  ball  of  wool,  please  —  it  has  just  rolled 
under  my  uncle's  chair." 

Mr.  Austen  handed  it  to  her,  as  the  doctor 
stooped.  He  avoided  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Hasbrouck 
regarded  the  men  scornfully. 

"  Carter !  Do  you  hear  that !  "  she  said,  some 
time  later,  breaking  into  the  conversation  by  the 
fireplace.  "  The  Woodhulls  are  divorced !  " 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  " 

"  They  were  married  only  four  months !  " 

"What  was  the  trouble?  "  he  asked,  watching 
Peggy  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

"  Just  uncongenial,"  Mrs.  Austen  interjected. 
"  You  remember  the  Smiths?  —  They  were  mar- 
ried only  three  weeks !  " 

"  Better  do  away  with  marriage  altogether," 
her  husband  suggested,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"  You  'd  love  that,  would  n't  you,  darling,"  she 
said,  with  a  tormenting  smile. 

"  It  would  save  a  lot  of  suffering." 

"  How  does  it  strike  you,  Miss  Lascelles?  "  the 
doctor  asked. 

"  You  do  not  look  at  marriage,  here,  as  we  do 
in  my  country,  I  'm  afraid  —  it  is  that  you  expect 
a  miracle !  "  she  laughed.  "  In  France,  if  a  man 
and  his  wife  find  themselves  uncongenial,  at  the 
end  of  a  few  months  —  well  —  they  are  philo- 
sophical. You  see,  from  childhood,  we  are 


PEGGY-ELISE  139 

taught  that  one  must  make  a  success  of  marriage. 
A  woman  would  not  think  to  divorce  her  hus- 
band, because  she  was  disappointed  in  him! 
Mon  Dieu, —  they  would  be  all  divorcees."  She 
shrugged,  her  face  humorously  alight. 

"  Sounds  sort  of  cold-blooded/'  the  doctor  re- 
marked. 

"  Not  at  all !  "  Peggy  protested,  laughing.  "  It 
is  only  that  we  are  practical." 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  more  revolting, 
anyway,  than  their  custom  of  choosing  a  husband 
for  a  girl !  "  Mrs.  Hasbrouck  exclaimed,  with  her 
pretty,  contemptuous  smile. 

"  But  how  can  a  young  girl  judge  of  charac- 
ter? "  Peggy  retorted.  "  How  can  she  find  out 
the  things  about  a  man  that  she  should  know? 
She  is  not  forced  to  marry  him,  if  she  does  not 
wish  to." 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  your  husband  selected 
for  you?  "  the  doctor  questioned,  grinning. 

"  Docteur,  you  forget  that  I  am  half  American ! 
The  Yankee  half  of  me  will  choose  our  husband 
—  and  the  French  half  will  make  the  best  of  it !  " 

Mrs.  Austen  and  the  doctor's  wife  did  not 
glance  up,  at  the  spontaneous  laughter  that  fol- 
lowed Peggy's  little  sally.  They  were  appar- 
ently too  absorbed,  in  an  exchange  of  gossip,  to 
be  aware  of  it.  The  girl,  however,  was  not  de- 
ceived. Her  face  grew  hot.  She  wondered  if 


140  PEGGY-ELISE 

she  had  been  forward.  She  was  sure  she  had 
said  nothing  she  should  not  have  said  —  yet, 
there  was  a  faintly  contemptuous  look  on  the 
faces  of  the  women  that,  clearly,  bore  no  relation 
to  what  they  were  saying.  As  she  came  out  of 
her  troubled  preoccupation,  Mrs.  Hasbrouck  re- 
marked : 

"  There 's  one  good  thing  about  this  war,  any- 
way —  when  it 's  over  we  won't  have  any  trouble 
getting  servants." 

"  And  then  you  say,"  Peggy  spoke  in  a  quiver- 
ing voice,  "  that  the  French  are  cold-blooded  — 
mon  Dieu  — / " 

"  I  don't  see  anything  cold-blooded  about  that ; 
we  need  servants,  and  these  people  will  need 
work  —  that 's  all,"  she  finished  icily. 

Peggy  resumed  the  knitting  she  had  dropped 
for  the  moment;  her  expression  was  grave,  al- 
most pitiful. 

"  Well,  you  '11  have  to  admit,"  Mr.  Austen 
spoke  up,  "  that  it  is  a  trifle  cold-blooded  to  see 
an  advantage  in  other  people's  tragedies." 

"  Well,  at  least  it 's  '  practical,'  "  Mrs.  Has- 
brouck parried,  with  a  malicious  emphasis. 

"  Me-ow ! "  the  doctor  said,  and  everybody 
laughed. 

"  Suppose  we  go  and  have  something  to  eat," 
Mrs.  Austen  suggested,  leading  the  way  to  the 
dining-room. 


PEGGY-ELISE  141 

Peggy  and  the  doctor  followed. 

"  Sorry  I  did  n't  meet  you,  sooner,  Miss  Las- 
celles.  Really ! " 

He  leaned  toward  her,  and  spoke  nervously,  in 
a  lowered  voice.  The  masking  smile  had  dis- 
appeared ;  desire  flamed  in  his  eyes.  "  I  hope  I 
—  shall  see  you  —  again  —  soon.  You  are  the 
most  — "  He  stopped  abruptly ;  Mr.  Austen  and 
his  wife  had  come  up  close  behind  them. 

Mrs.  Hasbrouck  was  saying  something  very 
complimentary  about  her  companion's  work,  in  a 
calm,  furious  voice  —  her  chin  high. 

Peggy  knew  she  had  overheard  the  doctor's  in- 
terrupted superlative,  and  she  was  wretchedly 
uncomfortable  to  have  been  placed,  so  undeserv- 
edly, in  a  dubious  position. 

All  through  the  frivolity  of  the  supper,  the 
doctor  fatuously  continued  to  establish  the  fact 
of  his  admiration  for  her.  She  was  miserable, 
and  longed  to  get  to  her  room. 

Mrs.  Hasbrouck  gave  her  a  brilliant,  hostile 
smile,  and  a  flaccid  hand,  when  she  said  good 
night. 

From  her  room,  Peggy  was  conscious  that  her 
aunt  had  switched  off  the  dining-room  lights, 
spoken  to  her  husband,  and  come  upstairs;  that 
her  uncle  had  locked  and  bolted  the  front  door; 
then  she  lost  herself  in  disquieting  thoughts  of 
the  evening. 


142  PEGGY-ELISE 

Suddenly  she  remembered  that  she  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  up  the  book  she  had  been  reading, 
and  went  down  for  it.  The  library  was  dark, 
except  for  the  dull  glow  from  the  fire.  As  she 
was  feeling  along  the  wall  for  the  switch,  some 
one  stirred.  She  gave  a  startled  exclamation. 

"  Did  I  frighten  you,  Peggy?  I  'm  sorry."  It 
was  her  uncle's  voice  —  low,  caressing. 

"  I  thought  every  one  was  in  bed,"  the  girl  ex- 
plained, "  but  I  remember,  now,  you  did  not  come 
upstairs.  I  came  down  for  a  book  —  I  have  the 
very  bad  habit  to  read  before  I  can  go  to  sleep. 
I  think  I  left  it  on  the  end  of  the  mantel-piece." 
She  crossed  to  where  Mr.  Austen  stood  staring 
into  the  fire. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  've  done  for  the  doctor,"  he 
said. 

She  could  not  see  his  face  —  his  height  lifted 
it  above  the  small  circle  of  radiance  from  the 
embers,  but  she  felt  his  devouring  gaze. 

"  That  is  absurd !  "  She  tried  to  speak  lightly, 
against  the  curious  excitement  his  tone  had 
aroused  in  her :  "  He  is  a  married  man !  " 

"But  he  is  human  —  he  is  human,''  he  whis- 
pered, passionately,  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
and  pressed  his  mouth  to  hers,  again  and  again, 
in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  free  herself.  Her  head 
whirled,  she  felt  suddenly  faint,  her  vital  young 
body  trembled  in  his  embrace.  "  I  love  you,  dear- 


PEGGY-ELISE  143 

est  —  you  know  that  I  love  you ! "  he  breathed, 
crushing  her  to  him. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  Peggy  said  weakly,  and  somehow 
escaped  from  his  arms  and  found  her  way,  dizzily, 
out  of  the  darkened  room. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs,  she  met  her  aunt  com- 
ing along  the  hall.  There  was  not  the  least  need 
to  explain  where  she  had  been,  but  a  sense  of 
guilt  betrayed  her  into  it. 

"  I  went  down  to  get  a  book,"  she  said,  striv- 
ing to  speak  naturally. 

Mrs.  Austen  glanced  at  the  girl's  hands,  raised 
her  eyebrows  politely,  and  went  on  to  her  room. 

Peggy  grew  hot,  all  over,  and  her  heart  filled 
with  sickening  dread. 

In  her  excitement,  she  had  come  upstairs  with- 
out the  book. 


CHAPTER  X 

MRS.  AUSTEN  went  to  her  room,  in  a  state 
of  intense  astonishment  and  suspicion. 
Automatically,  she  let  down  her  heavy,  bright 
hair  and  began  to  brush  it.  Why  had  Peggy 
been  so  nervous  and  flushed,  and  why  that  stupid 
lie  about  a  book?  Perhaps  she  had  gone  down 
really  for  a  book,  and  something  had  happened 
that  had  put  it  out  of  her  mind  —  but  what? 

She  would  not  have  admitted,  even  to  herself, 
that  she  regarded  Peggy  as  a  possible  rival.  But 
she  did.  The  sense  of  kinship  was  too  weakened 
by  circumstances  to  affect  her  attitude.  Peggy 
was  her  niece,  it  is  true  —  but  she  was  also  young 
and  attractive,  and  Mrs.  Austen  was  more  con- 
scious of  the  latter  fact  than  of  the  former.  But 
though,  since  the  hour  of  the  girl's  arrival,  she 
had  been  fully  aware  of  her  husband's  gravita- 
tion toward  her,  and  though  Doctor  Hasbrouck's 
conduct  that  evening  had  intensified  her  jealousy, 
no  suspicion  of  Peggy  had  crossed  her  mind  un- 
til now. 

Her  husband,  unhappily  unaware  of  Peggy's 
slip  and  of  the  necessity,  therefore,  to  comport 
himself  in  a  manner  to  avert  suspicion,  prepared 

144 


PEGGY-ELISE  145 

for  bed  in  an  absorbed  silence,  stopping  now  and 
then  and  staring  at  space.  To  his  wife,  the 
symptoms  were  conclusive  —  she  was  not  wholly 
unfamiliar  with  them. 

After  hours  of  tossing,  Mr.  Austen  dozed  off, 
envying  his  wife  her  ability  to  sleep  —  at  the 
moment  when  she,  indeed,  was  scornfully  lashing 
herself  for  having  been  so  gullible. 

The  children  had  finished  breakfast  and  their 
father  and  mother  were  alone  at  the  table,  when 
Peggy  came  down  the  next  morning.  She  was 
agonizingly  self-conscious,  as  she  seated  herself. 
She  had  dreaded  meeting  them;  especially  she 
feared  some  seemingly  trivial  remark  on  her 
uncle's  part  that,  to  her  aunt,  would  prove  fatally 
conclusive,  in  view  of  last  night's  unfortunate 
occurrence.  But  he  saluted  her  with  his  cus- 
tomary morning  gravity.  As  for  Mrs.  Austen  — 
there  was  no  way  to  fathom  her  enigmatic  smile. 
This  morning,  in  her  uneasiness,  Peggy  felt  the 
full  disturbing  force  of  it. 

"  I  believe  you  said  you  were  going  to  the 
opera,  to-night?"  Mr.  Austen  inquired,  as  his 
wife  turned  off  the  ebony  spigot  of  the  percolator 
and  passed  Peggy  her  coffee. 

She  nodded. 

"  Well, —  I  '11  stay  in  town,  and  bring  you 
home.  You  might  come  in  early,  if  you  like,"  he 
suggested,  smiling,  "  and  have  dinner  with  me." 


146  PEGGY-ELISE 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  disagreeably. 

"  I  could  n't  think  of  putting  you  to  that 
bother!  The  Donnellys  have  asked  us  to  motor 
in,  with  them,  and  they  '11  bring  us  home." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  uncovering  the  rolls  and  offer- 
ing them  to  Peggy,  "  I  dare  say  you  regard  that 
as  a  more  agreeable  arrangement,  anyway." 

Mrs.  Austen  lifted  her  shoulders,  in  a  charac- 
teristic gesture. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  it  seemed  to  Peggy 
that  she  was  creating  a  din  with  her  knife  and 
fork;  her  senses  became  unreliable,  magnifying 
sounds  and  distances.  Nothing  weighed  any- 
thing—  her  cup  was  so  light  that  she  almost 
spilled  her  coffee  when  she  lifted  it.  Her  aunt's 
manner  with  her  husband  had  for  the  girl  a  sick- 
ening significance.  She  was  horribly  worried. 
If  she  had  only  thought  to  say  that  she  had 
been  unable  to  find  the  book,  she  would  have 
cleared  herself,  instantly;  but  now  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do  —  it  would  simply  have  to 
stand  as  a  suspicious  circumstance. 

"What  did  you  have  to  pay  for  tickets? "  her 
uncle's  voice  broke  the  silence,  at  last. 

"  Ten  dollars." 

''  Apiece?  " 

"Certainly!"  his  wife  said  belligerently, 
frowning.  "We  were  lucky  to  get  them!  Mr. 


PEGGY-ELISE  147 

Donnelly  had  a  hard  time,  as  it  was  —  it 's  the 
opening  of  the  season." 

Mr.  Austen  buttered  a  piece  of  roll.  He 
turned  to  Peggy : 

"  You  're  going,  of  course?  " 

"No  —  I  do  not  care  a  great  deal  for  '  Car- 
men.' " 

"  How  did  you  like  the  Hasbroucks?  "  he  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

The  girl  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

Mrs.  Austen  busied  herself  with  an  active  crisp 
of  bacon. 

"  I  think  the  doctor  was  very  smitten  with 
Peggy —  don't  you?''  Mr.  Austen  continued. 

"  The  doctor 's  smitten  with  every  one  who  en- 
courages him,"  she  said  contemptuously.  Then 
addressing  Peggy :  "  You  were  taking  a  chance 
—  his  wife  is  insanely  jealous  of  every  woman 
who  flirts  with  him." 

Her  niece  flushed. 

"  I  did  not  think  I  flirted.  You  have  all  teased 
me  for  my  seriousness,  since  I  have  been  here, 
and  last  night  I  tried  to  be  more  gay  —  that  is 
all." 

Mrs.  Austen  was  regarding  her  plate  with  an 
air  of  bored  cynicism.  Peggy  had  a  moment  of 
plexal  nausea  —  she  wished  she  had  never  left 
France. 


148  PEGGY-ELISE 

"By  the  way,"  Mr.  Austen  said,  folding  Ms 
napkin,  "  I  wonder  if  you  could  find  time,  to- 
day, to  type  that  scenario  of  mine  — '  Labor '  ? 
Merrit  seemed  very  much  interested  in  it,  yes- 
terday, and  wants  to  see  it  right  away.  If  you 
could  — " 

"  Why  don't  you  have  one  of  the  girls  in  the 
office  do  it?  "  his  wife  interrupted. 

"  I  don't  care  to  have  them  know,  at  the  office, 
that  I  am  doing  motion-picture  scenarios,"  he 
said,  flushing.  "  Besides,  Peggy  likes  to  do  it." 

"  I  can't  imagine  any  one  liking  to  do  type- 
writing, but  then  — " 

"  That  is  true.  I  am  not  an  exception,"  Peggy 
said,  smiling,  "but  I  suppose  we  all  do  things, 
sometimes,  for  others,  that  we  do  not  like  espe- 
cially to  do." 

Her  aunt  made  no  comment. 

She  was  lounging  by  the  fire,  reading  the  paper, 
when  Peggy  went  into  the  library  some  time 
later,  the  unopened  copy  of  the  Revue  she  had 
just  received  from  Venable,  in  her  hand.  She 
meant  to  glance  through  it  and  then  get  to  work. 

"  Now  you  are  just '  Marguerite,'  "  she  said,  in 
an  effort  to  seem  at  ease,  to  Isabelle,  who  sat  in 
a  low  chair  full  in  the  oblong  of  brilliant  sun- 
shine from  a  near  window,  nibbling  bonbons  from 
a  round  rose  and  gold-laced  box. 

"  You    mean    my    hair? "    Isabelle    inquired, 


PEGGY-ELISE  149 

catching  up  the  long  braids  that  hung  over  either 
shoulder.  "  Doris  says  Doctor  Vignol  —  he  's 
the  hair  specialist,  you  know  — makes  all  his 
people  wear  their  hair  hanging  for  hours,  every 
day  —  he  says  it  exercises  the  roots  —  isn't  he 
wonderful?  I  'm  crazy  to  go  to  him !  " 

"  It  is  not  just  the  hair,"  Peggy  said.  "  It  is 
the  whole  effect  —  the  simple  gray  dress  —  and 
the  box  —  it  is  like  a  jewel  casket." 

Isabelle  began  to  hum  the  Jewel  song. 

"I  like  the  music,"  she  said,  "but  I  think 
Marguerite 's  awfully  wishy-washy  —  I  'd  rather 
do  '  Thais.'  " 

"  Yes  —  but  it  is  a  very  difficult  role." 

"  Did  you  see  the  girl  Allyn  was  with,  last 
night,  Mother?  "  she  asked,  ignoring  her  cousin's 
remark.  "  I  think  she  was  an  awful  stick." 

Mrs.  Austen  shook  her  head.  She  seemed  pre- 
occupied. 

Peggy  settled  herself  on  the  divan,  her  heart 
heavy.  In  thrusting  a  pillow  behind  her  back, 
she  uncovered  a  green  volume. 

"  There  is  my  book !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
looked  for  it  everywhere !  "  Suddenly,  she  saw 
that  her  aunt  was  watching  her,  and  realized 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  She  supposed,  of 
course  that  Peggy  was  referring  to  the  book  of 
last  night's  incident ;  instead,  the  girl  had  found 
one  she  had  actually  mislaid,  several  days  earlier ; 


150  PEGGY-ELISE 

without  intentional  duplicity,  she  had  cleared 
herself. 

With  a  great  rush  of  relief,  she  turned  to  her 
magazine.  The  Phryne  was  even  more  perfect 
than  she  had  remembered.  As  she  gazed  at  the 
exquisite  figure,  she  thrilled  with  pride  in  the 
man  whom  she  had  helped,  a  little,  to  create  it. 
It  did  not  need  Vernet's  enthusiastic  paragraph, 
below  —  it  was  its  own  magnificent  reason  for 
being.  In  her  joy,  she  passed  the  Revue  to  her 
aunt. 

"  Here  is  a  reproduction  of  Mr.  Venable's 
Phryne." 

Isabelle  went  and  looked  over  her  mother's 
shoulder. 

"Why!"  she  gasped,  "it  — why  it  looks  like 
you,  Peggy!" 

"  But  that  is  most  natural ;  I  told  you  that  I 
posed  for  it,"  she  replied,  bewildered  by  her 
cousin's  aghast  face. 

Two  quick  spots  of  color  burned  in  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten's cheeks : 

"  You  did  n't  say  that  you  posed  —  nude !  " 

"  But  I  told  you  it  represented  Phryne's  ap- 
pearance before  the  Athenian  tribunal  —  did  you 
not  know  the  story?  " 

"Do  you  mean  —  you  don't  mean,"  Isabelle 
asked  in  horror,  "  that  you  posed  that  way 
—  with  nothing  on  —  at  all?"  Her  cheeks 


PEGGY-ELISE  151 

were   crimson,   her   lips   parted,   incredulously. 

"  Certainly.  How  can  an  artist  do  the  figure 
if  he  has  no  model?  " 

"  Well  —  if  they  have  to  have  one,  let  them  use 
some  of  the  vulgar  women  who  —  who  don't  care ! 
I  can't  imagine  a  —  a  decent  — "  She  broke  off , 
an  expression  of  disgust  distorting  her  pretty 
face. 

"  You  do  not  understand,  Isabelle,"  Peggy 
managed  to  say  quietly.  "  A  true  artist  does  not 
wish  to  perpetuate  in  marble  a  coarse-minded, 
coarse-bodied  woman  —  sculpture  would  degen- 
erate into  a  base  art,  if  only  common  women 
would  lend  themselves  to  the  wrork.  Even  the 
Phryne,  who  was  a  courtesan,  could  not  be  truly 
represented,  except  by  some  one  with  intelligence 
and  refinement.  Otherwise,  only  the  repulsive 
side  of  her  would  come  out." 

"  I  should  say  I  don't  understand,"  Isabelle 
said  scornfully,  "  and  I  don't  want  to ! "  She 
regarded  her  cousin  with  unconcealed  distaste, 
"/think  it's  immoral!" 

"  Tell  me,  Isabelle,"  Peggy  said  earnestly,  "  is 
it  any  more  immoral  than  for  a  woman  to  appear 
in  public  in  a  very  decollete  gown  or  a  fashion- 
able bathing  suit?  She  shows  as  much  of  herself 
as  she  dares,  whether  she  has  beauty  to  justify 
it  or  not  —  she  is  not  thinking  of  beauty !  She 
wishes  only  to  remind  men  that  she  is  a  woman 


152  PEGGY-ELISE 

—  to  stimulate  their  curiosity  —  and  passion! 
With  a  model,  it  is  quite  different  —  she  has  to 
make  her  living  with  her  beauty  —  and  an  artist 
is  thinking  of  that,  or  of  her  defects,  perhaps, 
when  he  is  doing  the  nude  figure  —  and  not  of 
her  sex !  I  think  you  do  not  realize  how  artists 
and  their  models  regard  posing." 

"  All  this  talk  of  artists  amuses  me,"  Mrs. 
Austen  said,  with  withering  sarcasm.  "  They 
are  men,  like  any  one  else,  and  they  take  advan- 
tage of  their  opportunities !  " 

The  color  flashed  out  of  Peggy's  cheeks.  Striv- 
ing to  remain  calm,  she  said : 

"  It  is  true  that  sometimes  artists  are  con- 
temptible —  just  as  bakers,  or  ministers  or  doc- 
tors—  are  sometimes  contemptible;  but  I  can 
tell  you,  my  aunt,  that  women  are  insulted  quite 
as  often,  in  the  every-day  relations  with  men,  as 
they  ever  are  in  studios." 

Without  comment  on  what  she  had  just  said, 
Mrs.  Austen  returned  the  Revue  to  her  niece. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  show  that  to  any  one  else ! 
I  think  you  'd  better  destroy  it." 

Peggy  put  in  most  of  the  afternoon  on  the 
scenario  her  uncle  had  asked  her  to  type,  but  her 
mind  was  not  on  the  work ;  instead,  it  reviewed 
obstinately  every  detail  of  her  aunt's  behavior 
over  the  Phryne ;  it  forced  her  to  realize  that  her 
nearest  relatives  confused  posing  with  moral 


PEGGY-ELISE  153 

laxity  —  they  could  not,  or  they  would  not,  see  a 
difference.  She  was  indignant,  distressed.  An 
ache  of  homesickness  for  the  old  broad  studio  life 
with  her  father,  for  the  contact  with  keen,  liberal 
minds,  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  In  a  mo- 
mentary reaction  against  the  stupid  narrowness 
of  her  present  life,  she  almost  wished  that  she 
had  remained  in  France  with  Venable,  on  any 
terms.  She  had  not  realized  that  there  could  be 
an  environment  in  which  people  did  not  think 
for  themselves,  in  which  they  were  actuated  by  a 
kind  of  inherited  hypocrisy.  She  had  given 
much  thought  to  the  needs  of  her  body,  in  the 
past,  and  some  to  those  of  her  soul,  but  a  stimu- 
lating mental  atmosphere  had  entirely  obscured 
the  possibility  of  an  existence  in  which  her  mind 
might  famish.  The  aridity  of  her  life,  in  the 
Austen  home  was  beginning  to  depress  her  un- 
bearably. It  was  true  her  uncle  could  be  drawn 
into  invigorating  discussions,  but  most  of  the 
time  he  revolved  round  and  round  his  own  prob- 
lem. Besides,  his  recently  disclosed  feeling  for 
her  eliminated  any  hope  of  comradeship.  Of 
the  friends  who  frequented  the  house,  not  one  ap- 
peared to  have  an  interest  beyond  cards,  theaters, 
and  social  gossip.  She  felt  she  could  not  stand 
much  more  of  it. 

The  Donnelly  car  had  come  and  gone,  bearing 
Mrs.    Austen    and    Isabelle    away.     Allyn    had 


154  PEGGY-ELISE 

dashed  over  to  the  Donnellys',  immediately  after 
dinner,  to  try  Rex's  new  pool  table. 

Peggy  had  kissed  Anne  good  night,  and  gone 
to  her  own  room  to  prepare  for  bed,  when  she 
heard  Mr.  Austen  ascending  the  stairs.  He 
stopped  at  her  door. 

"  Are  n't  you  coming  down,  this  evening?  "  he 
inquired.  "  It 's  early,  you  know, —  only  half- 
past  nine.  I  —  I  'd  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you  — " 

Peggy  considered,  rapidly.  After  all,  she 
could  not  ignore  her  uncle's  behavior ;  it  involved 
an  issue  that  must  be  met  sometime  —  better 
now,  when  they  could  talk  without  danger  of 
interruption. 

"  All  right,  mon  oncle  —  I  shall  be  down  in  a 
minute." 

He  was  at  his  desk,  going  over  the  scenario  she 
had  typed,  when  she  entered,  a  work-basket  in 
her  arms. 

"  You  know  —  of  course  —  why  I  want  to  talk 
with  you/'  he  said,  without  preamble,  as  she  set- 
tled herself  in  a  comfortable  chair.  "  I  ?m  not 
going  to  apologize  for  what  I  did  last  night  — 
you  know  that  I  love  you  —  Peggy,  I  have  never 
loved  any  woman  in  my  life  as  I  do  you !  "  He 
reached  over  and  took  the  sewing  out  of  her 
hands,  and  held  one  in  each  of  his.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve—  marvelously  as  you  understand  most 


PEGGY-ELISE  155 

things, —  you  can  quite  realize  the  tragedy  of  it. 
You  satisfy  every  need,  every  desire  —  if  I  had 
you,  there  is  nothing  I  could  not  accomplish !  " 

She  gently  withdrew  her  hands  and  sat,  for  a 
moment,  reflecting. 

"  You  do  not  know  me  at  all." 

"  I  know  that  I  love  you  —  and  nothing  else 
matters,"  he  said,  intensely. 

Peggy  shook  her  head. 

"  Many  other  things  matter.  You  see  —  you 
are  too  impulsive.  Because  you  believe  you  love 
me,  you  will  not  look  at  my  faults.  You  would 
not  look  at  my  aunt's,  because  you  were  infatu- 
ated with  her  —  you  have  told  me  so.  She  was 
extravagant,  and  she  loved  always  to  have  a  good 
time  —  and  you  were  poor  and  liked  to  be  quiet 
—  yet  you  married  her.  ...  It  would  be  the  same 
with  me.  You  said,  just  a  moment  ago,  that  I 
would  satisfy  every  need,  but  to  do  that  I  would 
have  to  live  —  like  this  —  with  my  life  fitted  into 
yours.  What  would  become  of  my  ambitions? 
You  must  have  realized,  mon  cher  oncle,  that  no 
domestic  life,  alone,  could  ever  content  me."  As 
she  talked,  she  deftly  repaired  a  torn  scallop. 
"  You  see  —  I  have  a  certain  pride  that  makes  me 
do  as  well  as  I  can,  the  things  that  I  have  to  do, 
but,  in  themselves,  many  of  them  do  not  inter- 
est me.  My  one  thought  is  to  sing." 

"  I  could  make  you  so  happy,  you  'd  never 


156  PEGGY-ELISE 

think  of  your  ambitions  again ! "  he  said,  vehe- 
mently. 

"But  what  do  you  think  would  make  me 
happy?  " 

"  To  be  loved,  as  I  would  love  you !  " 

"And  give  up  my  work?"  She  shook  her 
head. 

"  Well,  then,  I  dare  say  it  could  be  arranged 
so  that  you  could  go  on  with  your  singing/' —  he 
spoke  without  enthusiasm. 

"  We  are  so  serious ! "  Peggy  said,  breaking 
into  a  little  laugh.  "  You  have  already  a  wife !  " 

"  There  are  ways  out  of  marriage  .  .  ."  His 
voice  was  tense. 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  said,  with 
grave  sweetness : 

"  It  was  not  to  help  you  find  a  way  out  that  I 
have  talked  as  I  have.  It  is  as  I  was  saying, 
last  night  —  there  are  always  problems  in  mar- 
riage, and  I  think  divorce  is  a  stupid  solution, 
generally.  It  seems  to  me  like  —  like  a  confes- 
sion of  failure  —  except  in  rare  cases." 

"  Peggy,"  her  uncle  said,  "  I  have  tried  —  well, 
practically  all  of  my  married  life  —  to  change 
your  aunt  —  to  interest  her  in  more  vital  things 
—  to  teach  her  the  value  of  money,  but  — "  He 
made  a  gesture  of  futility. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  not  gone  about  it  the  right 


PEGGY-ELISE  157 

way  —  perhaps  —  forgive  me  to  say  it  —  you 
should  have  tried  to  change  yourself,  a  little." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  been  firmer  with  her," 
he  reflected. 

"  Or  with  yourself,"  she  hazarded. 

"  Let 's  not  talk  any  more  about  this,  to-night." 
He  rose  and  shook  himself  as  though  to  get  rid 
of  an  unpleasant  thought.  "  I  want  to  be  happy 
just  this  little  while  that  I  have  you  to  myself." 
He  spoke  wistfully.  "  Let 's  go  into  the  other 
room,  and  sit  by  the  fire." 

"  No."  She  folded  up  her  work :  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  bed,  now." 

"  You  are  afraid  that  I  may  forget  myself, 
again?  Peggy  —  was  it  really  so  disagreeable?  " 
He  leaned  toward  her,  smiling  tenderly. 

"  You  are  very  impetuous  —  and  you  have  — 
much  physical  charm  —  and  I  am  not  —  insensi- 
tive," she  said  slowly,  "  but  —  no  —  I  did  not 
like  it.  It  is  difficult  to  explain." 

"  You  mean  that  you  did  n't  want  to  like  it?  " 

"No  —  it  is  not  that;  it  would  not  happen 
again." 

"  Are  you  very  sure?  " 

"  Yes.  You  —  surprised  me,  last  night.  Of 
course,  if  I  were  contemptible,  and  there  were 
not  some  one  else  for  whom  I  —  care  —  it  is  true 
I  could  drift  into  an  affair  with  you  —  I  mean  — 


158  PEGGY-ELISE 

vou  do  not  repel  me.  In  the  same  circumstances 
there  are  many  with  whom  it  would  be  impos- 
sible —  do  you  see  what  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  it 's  quite  clear  what 
you  mean  —  it  was  not  myself,  but  only  the  man 
in  me  that  moved  you.  My  God,  Peggy!  If  I 
had  been  that  other  man,  I  would  never  have  let 
you  come  to  America !  " 

"  He  is  like  you,  my  uncle ;  he  thinks  that  it  is 
not  well  for  an  artist  to  marry." 

"  Dear,  I  'd  marry  you,  to-morrow." 

"  And  repent  it,  the  day  after,"  she  said,  with 
a  whimsical  smile.  "  Good  night." 

He  looked  down  adoringly  into  her  eyes. 

"  No  —  that  is  the  one  thing  I  could  never  do. 
I  wish  I  had  known  you  twenty  years  ago." 

"  But  I  was  not  born,  then ! "  Her  eyes 
twinkled. 

"  No  —  that 's  true  —  you  were  n't.  You  see, 
you  are  so  old  for  your  age  — " 

"  And  you  are  so  young  for  yours  — " 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"  Good  night,"  Peggy  said,  at  last. 

"  Good  night."  He  held  her  hand  lingeringly 
in  his;  she  could  feel  the  pulse  beating  against 
her  palm.  "  I  hope  you  will  —  rest  well,"  he 
said,  and  turned  away  abruptly. 

After  Peggy  went,  he  sat  at  his  desk  for  a  long 
time,  his  head  between  his  hands,  staring  at  the 


PEGGY-ELISE  159 

tan  blotter.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  exaggerated 
his  feeling  for  her;  if  anything,  he  had  under- 
stated it  —  or  rather,  he  had  omitted  individual- 
izing details.  As  he  recalled  his  words,  they 
seemed  disappointingly  typical  and  unconvinc- 
ing. He  saw  how  natural  it  was  Peggy  should 
have  confused  the  quality  of  his  love  for  her  with 
that  of  his  long-ago  infatuation  for  his  wife. 
That  had  been  mere  youthful  passion  —  it  had 
lacked  the  complexity  of  his  love  for  Peggy.  To 
realize  his  literary  ambitions,  to  prove  himself 
to  himself,  mattered  more  to  him,  now,  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world;  the  girl  understood  this; 
she  encouraged  him,  inspired  him ;  he  needed  her 
—  she  moved  through  his  every  dream.  And,  as 
he  sat  thinking,  he  saw,  suddenly,  that  he  did  not 
need  his  wife  —  she  gave  him  nothing  that  he 
could  not  obtain  elsewhere. 

He  was  still  deep  in  thought,  when  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten and  Isabelle  came  in  from  the  opera.  They 
had  had  a  wonderful  time  —  Galland  had  been 
divine  —  she  had  taken  ten  curtain  calls. 

"  Why,  Papa," —  Isabellas  eyes  shone  with  ex- 
citement — "  she  gets  over  two  thousand  dollars 
a  night !  I  wish  I  were  in  her  shoes !  " 

"  Well,  your  father  can  help  you,  if  he  cares 
to." 

Mr.  Austen  regarded  his  wife  blankly. 

"  You  know  Giles  Winthrop  well  enough  to  in- 


160  PEGGY-ELISE 

vite  him  out  to  the  house,  don't  you?  "  she  asked 
belligerently.  "  You  went  to  college  with  him/' 

"  But  — " 

"  He 's  one  of  the  directors  of  the  Metropolitan, 
isn't  he?  It  seems  to  me  that  if  you  can't  ad- 
vance Isabelle  socially,  you  might  pull  any 
strings  you  can  to  help  her  artistically.  Her 
voice  is  just  as  good  as  lots  that  you  iear  there  — 
it 's  only  a  question  of  pull." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  wondering  how  his 
wife  could  think  that  Isabelle  had  grand  opera 
possibilities.  But  finally  he  said : 

"  All  right.     I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  hold  of  him." 

He  listened  until  he  heard  the  click  of  their 
heels  on  the  stairs,  then  he  followed,  automati- 
cally pressing  buttons  that  left  the  rooms  in 
darkness  behind  him. 

He  had  yielded  for  the  sake  of  peace  —  but  it 
was  a  curiously  external  peace ;  inside,  there  was 
sickening  turmoil. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ONE  evening  after  dinner,  during  the  fort- 
night following  Peggy-Elise's  departure 
for  America,  Gilbert  Venable  was  lying  on  the 
couch  in  his  studio,  smoking,  and  thinking  of 
her  —  missing  her.  He  was  wondering  if,  with 
her  irritating  practicality,  she  had  put  him  out 
of  her  thoughts  as  resolutely  as  she  had  put  him 
out  of  her  life  and  at  once  admiring  and  resent- 
ing her  strength,  when  there  came  a  knock  at 
the  door.  It  was  an  unfamiliar  and  individual 
knock  —  one  short,  imperious  rap.  It  touched 
his  imagination,  and  he  hurried  to  open  the  door, 
pipe  in  hand. 

In  the  doorway,  her  hands  resting  lightly  on 
her  thighs,  one  foot  thrust  back  and  her  head  to 
one  side,  stood  Fania  Rebikoff,  the  woman  about 
whose  dancing  and  whose  personality  all  Paris 
was  talking.  Venable's  pulses  leapt  at  sight  of 
her;  her  dazzling  splendor  took  his  breath  away. 
She  was  tall,  and  her  supple  body  was  sheathed 
in  shimmering  Tyrian  purple  silk.  A  vermillion 
sash,  brocaded  in  old  silver,  with  heavy  silver 
fringe,  was  caught  round  her  slim  hips  and  knot- 
ted on  one  side,  and  she  wore  quaint,  tarnished 

161 


162  PEGGY-ELISE 

silver,  heelless  shoes.  On  her  right  hand  was  an 
enormous  square  emerald,  in  a  barbaric  silver 
setting.  Her  black  hair  was  brushed  straight 
back  from  her  forehead,  so  that  her  head  looked 
sleek  and  glossy  like  a  wet  seal's.  Heavy  emer- 
ald earrings  swung  from  her  short-lobed  ears. 

"  It  is  necessary  to  introduce  myself? "  she 
demanded  disdainfully,  in  French,  as  Venable 
stared  at  her  —  speechless. 

"  Your  pardon,  madame,"  he  managed  to  ar- 
ticulate. "  I  was  thinking  that  there  must  be 
some  mistake." 

"  No."  She  entered  the  studio  with  lazy  grace. 
"  The  little  Bosquet  wished  to  bring  me,  himself, 
to  save  me  embarrassment  —  but  me  —  I  am 
never  embarrassed  —  and  I  preferred  to  meet  you 
—  alone."  Her  voice  had  strangely  disturbing 
notes  in  it;  Venable's  breath  came  short,  as  it 
played  along  his  nerves  —  it  was  languorous,  al- 
luring. 

He  had  seen  her,  some  months  before,  at  the 
Opera,  and  had  been  restless  for  days  after. 
Her  marvelous  dancing  was  an  expression  of  con- 
suming, unslakable  desire;  every  glance  of  her 
dark,  tired  eyes;  every  quiver  of  her  unquiet 
mouth,  painted  vividly  scarlet;  every  movement 
of  her  sinuous  body,  swa\Ting  to  urging,  Russian 
rhythms  —  the  faint  hint  of  exhaustion  —  subtly 


PEGGY-ELISE  163 

promised  ecstatic  destruction  to  all  who  might 
seek  to  quench  it.  But  the  stories  current  about 
her  had  rather  dashed  Venable's  enthusiasm. 
At  that  time  she  was  permitting  a  certain  elderly 
banker  to  pay  for  her  expensive  caprices.  She 
drove  notorious  bargains  with  her  lovers,  Paris 
said,  and  nicknamed  her  "  L'Avare."  Venable 
had  figured  that,  from  meeting  such  a  woman, 
nothing  was  to  be  gained  unless  all  was  to  be 
gained  —  and  had  put  her  out  of  his  head.  But 
now,  close  to  her,  the  madness  returned.  The 
peculiar  white  flaming  beauty  of  her  face  fas- 
cinated him  —  he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
it. 

"I  am  sorry,  rnadame,"  he  said,  at  length, 
"  that  you  should  have  found  me  like  this.  I 
have  been  lying  down." 

Her  heavy  magnetic  gaze  traveled  over  him 
like  a  lingering  hand,  lie  thrilled  under  it. 
She  slowly  lifted  one  shoulder. 

"  Where  is  the  Phryne?  v  she  demanded. 

He  led  the  way  to  it,  in  chagrin.  For  a  mad 
moment,  he  had  thought  that  her  presence  in  his 
studio  at  that  hour,  coupled  with  her  expressed 
wish  to  see  him  alone,  might  be  due  to  some 
caprice  of  curiosity,  of  interest  touching  him, 
personally.  He  smiled  at  his  naivete.  As  she 
scrutinized  the  figure,  with  intense  interest,  his 


164  PEGGY-EU8E 

pride  as  an  artist  soothed  his  injured  vanity. 
He  wondered  if  she  thought  of  purchasing  the 
Phryne. 

She  turned  to  him  finally,  with  an  air  of  tri- 
umph, her  lips  parted  in  a  scornful  smile. 

"  My  body  is  far  more  beautiful  than  that  — 
it  has  more  subtlety  —  more  appeal!  I  told 
Bosquet !  He  is  a  fool !  Look !  " 

With  perfect  ease,  she  assumed  the  pose  of  the 
Phryne,  but  the  insolence,  the  sensuousness,  the 
contempt,  were  startlingly  intensified. 

Venable  gazed  at  her,  spellbound. 

"  Destroy  that,"  she  urged,  "  and  you  shall  do 
one  of  me  that  will  live  forever!  See  —  she 
could  have  been  cold  and  controlled  —  it  is  in  her 
face,  in  her  body  —  she  had  a  soul  —  but  me  — 
I  am  just  fire  —  I  burn  always  —  it  is  my  nature 
—  I  know  only  one  law  —  to  devour !  " 

Venable  strove  to  speak  calmly. 

"  Yes  —  you  are  elemental,  but  you  would  not 
do  for  the  Phryne.  The  old  Greeks  would  not 
have  found  you  beautiful.  Your  beauty  is  of  to- 
day; it  would  appeal  only  to  the  school  that  ig- 
nores featural  perfection,  and  worships  angu- 
larity, and  even  ugliness,  if  it  has  a  certain  qual- 
ity. You  are  too  thin,  too  modern  to  be  a  con- 
vincing Phryne." 

She  snapped  her  fingers. 

"  You  are  in  love  with  your  model." 


PEGGY-ELISE  165 

'*  Madame,"  Venable  asked  suddenly,  "  why 
did  you  wish  to  meet  me  alone?  "  He  smiled 
down  upon  her  —  there  was  challenge  in  his  eyes. 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  that 
made  his  senses  reel. 

"  There  is  always  a  possibility  that  one  may 
wish  she  had  come  —  alone." 

Venable  caught  her  blindly  to  him,  and  bent 
her  supple  body  far  back  as  he  leaned  over  and 
felt  thirstily  for  her  lips. 

It  seemed  to  Venable  that  life  could  offer  noth- 
ing more  than  it  gave  him  during  the  following 
week.  Fania  was  infatuated  with  her  handsome 
new  lover  and  omitted  none  of  the  ritual  of  en- 
slavement. Into  his  workaday  studio  she 
brought  the  barbaric  splendor  of  her  costumes  — 
Bakst,  who  admired  her  inordinately,  had  de- 
signed them  all  —  and  as  she  swirled  past  him 
in  some  spontaneous,  impassioned  dance,  or  sat, 
cross-legged,  among  cushions,  in  fantastic  Turk- 
ish garb  of  Persian  green,  Bakst  magenta,  and 
black  arabesqued  in  gold  —  and  with  rare  inflec- 
tions recited  for  him  some  vivid  chapter  from  her 
life  —  it  had  all  the  enchanting  regalement  of 
the  Arabian  Nights. 

Fania  stimulated  his  imagination,  but  much 
as  opium  might  have  affected  it ;  ideas  for  figures 
sprang  up  with  such  satisfying  vitality  and  dis- 


166  PEGGY-ELISE 

tinctness  that  he  was  somehow  lazily  disinclined 
to  give  them  more  concrete  expression.  He 
thought,  even,  of  changing  the  whole  mode  of  his 
art  —  of  adopting  the  abandonment  of  the  futur- 
ists in  order  to  catch  the  elusive,  free,  ultra- 
modern quality  of  Fania;  at  moments  even  the 
Phryne  appeared  stilted,  antiquated.  But  all  his 
enthusiasm  was  insufficient  to  energize  his  re- 
laxed will. 

At  first,  Fania  insisted  upon  having  their  meals 
in  the  studio,  but  the  whim  was  of  short  duration. 
One  night  she  pushed  the  food  from  her  in  a  pet. 
When  Tenable  tried  to  find  out  what  the  trouble 
was,  she  shrugged  him  away  irritably.  What 
was  the  matter  with  the  man  that  he  did  not 
want  to  take  her  out  and  flaunt  his  conquest? 
She  was  used  to  being  "  shown  off  " ;  she  under- 
stood masculine  vanity  and  profited  by  it.  This 
willingness  to  celebrate  such  a  victory  in  solitude 
was  an  inconceivable  affront.  The  fool  might  be 
loutishly  in  love,  but  he  did  not  know  her  value 
—  she  was  wasted  on  him. 

"  Are  we  to  stay  shut  up  in  this  hole  forever?  " 
she  demanded,  having  fumed  and  lashed  herself 
into  a  fury. 

Venable  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Why,  I  thought  it  was  your  wish,"  he  said. 

" Mon  Dieu!"  she  stamped.  "Am  I  to  be 
chained  to  my  wishes?  " 


PEGGY-ELISE  167 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  to  do?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  somewhere  and  see  some  one !  " 
She  flung  her  wineglass  to  the  floor,  shivering  it 
into  atoms. 

They  went  to  Durand's. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  when  they  en- 
tered, then  a  buzz.  She  was  pointed  out ;  people 
came  to  their  table.  She  was  in  brilliant  humor. 
Venable  saw  the  envy  in  men's  eyes,  caught  his 
name  as  it  passed  from  table  to  table  —  he  was 
intoxicated  with  his  triumph.  During  the  eve- 
ning, Fania  discovered  that  a  striking  young 
woman,  at  an  adjoining  table,  was  trying  to  at- 
tract Venable's  attention,  and  her  passion,  that 
had  rather  languished  for  a  day  or  two,  flared 
up.  He  happened  to  remark  that  the  stranger 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  an  American.  Fania's 
eyes  blazed. 

"  You  will  take  me  home,  now !  —  before  you 
humiliate  me  further!  "  she  commanded. 

Venable  was  dumbfounded. 

Back  in  the  studio  there  was  a  violent  scene. 
She  jerked  off  her  jewels,  tore  off  her  clothes, 
broke  the  pins  tearing  them  out  of  her  hair  in 
jealous  mania.  Her  voice  rose  to  a  scream  as 
she  said  that  Venable  had  made  her  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  Paris.  She  had  thrown  herself 
away  on  a  nobody,  and  he  had  ignored  her  — 
Fania  Rebikoff,  who  had  flouted  kings  —  ignored 


168  PEGGY-ELISE 

her  for —  She  drew  on  all  her  reserves  of  vo- 
cabulary to  describe  her  rival. 

Venable  explained  and  explained.  She 
shrieked  him  down.  She  was  hideous  in  her  rage 
—  unbelievably  coarse.  He  was  disenchanted  — 
at  least,  temporarily.  Her  hair  was  dishevelled, 
her  eyes  bloodshot,  and  the  studio  looked  as 
though  a  tornado  had  had  the  ordering  of  it :  the 
dinner  things  had  not  been  removed,  the  broken 
wineglass  still  glittered  on  the  floor,  that  was 
further  strewn  with  Fania's  gorgeous  garments. 
One  of  her  gold  sandals  lay  upside  down  on  a 
chair,  trailing  its  laces;  everywhere  there  were 
hairpins.  Her  heavy  gold  scarf  had  been  ar- 
rested in  transit  by  a  finger  of  the  Phryne,  from 
which  it  now  hung.  Venable  had  a  moment  of 
disgust;  he  thought  involuntarily  of  Peggy  — 
life  would  certainly  be  a  more  dignified,  a  more 
worth  while  thing  with  her,  but  then,  she  was  of 
a  different  ilk  —  of  an  ilk  that  did  not  lend  itself 
to  promiscuous  living.  In  that  moment,  quite 
unconsciously,  he  acknowledged  Peggy-Elise's  su- 
periority by  his  reluctance  even  to  compare  her 
with  the  Russian. 

Without  warning,  Fania  suddenly  ceased  her 
abuse,  flung  her  arms  around  Venable's  neck,  and 
sobbed  that  he  did  not  love  her  any  more. 

Harmony  was  restored  but  it  did  not  last. 
Every  day,  now,  there  were  quarrels.  She 


PEGGY-ELISE  169 

nagged  him  interminably  about  the  Phryne. 
Had  Peggy  inspired  it?  Was  it  like  her?  He 
admitted,  unfortunately,  that  Peggy  was  younger 
and  slimmer.  Fania  became  a  madwoman.  He 
must  have  the  Phryne  removed;  she  could  not 
stand  to  be  reminded,  every  hour,  of  this  woman 
who  had  been  everything  to  him.  In  vain  he  as- 
sured her  that  Peggy  was  only  a  friend.  At 
first,  her  jealousy  rather  flattered  him,  but  by 
degrees  he  saw  that  all  her  tirades  sprang  from 
wounded  vanity.  If  a  woman  was  praised  by 
any  one,  in  her  presence,  she  took  offense  and 
sulked  —  she  knew  the  defects  of  every  prominent 
beauty  in  Paris  and  detailed  them  venomously. 
Then  it  required  hours  of  adroit  wooing  and  a 
shameless  use  of  superlatives  to  win  her  back  to 
a  reasonable  humor.  It  became  very  wearisome. 
She  was  irascible,  capricious. 

After  devilling  him  for  two  days,  because  he 
had  not  made  the  promised  figure  of  her,  she 
exerted  every  charm  to  tease  him  away  from  the 
work.  She  posed  for  an  hour  the  next  day, 
then  grew  bored  and  demanded  that  he  stop. 
The  third  day,  they  had  another  violent  quarrel : 
Fania  could  see  no  resemblance  to  herself  in  the 
rough  clay  outlines;  she  insinuated  that  though 
that  might  be  how  she  looked  to  him,  it  was  not 
how  she  looked  to  herself,  and  she  demanded  im- 
mediate alterations.  The  artist  in  Venable  de- 


170  PEGGY-ELISE 

fended  his  work  indignantly.  There  was  an  ex- 
change of  enlightening  personalities.  Fania 
caught  up  her  heavy  gold  powder-box,  and  hurled 
it  at  the  figure.  Venable,  in  a  white  rage,  lunged 
at  it,  and  pounded  the  clay  into  a  shapeless  lump. 
Fania  hissed  that  she  was  through  with  him! 
Venable,  in  whom  she  had  awakened  insatiable 
cravings,  humbled  himself  once  more  and  im- 
plored her  to  stay. 

After  that,  she  continually  threatened  to  go. 
Venable's  nerves  had  gone  to  pieces,  and  in  his 
fuddled  state  of  mind  his  one  thought  was  to 
keep  the  wom-an,  at  any  cost,  whose  power  over 
him  made  her  indispensable  to  him  ;  furthermore, 
he  exaggerated  the  ridicule  to  which  he  would  be 
subjected  as  a  deserted  lover.  He  pictured  all 
Paris  convulsed  by  Fania's  conscienceless  humor. 

Then  the  Phryne  was  reproduced  in  the  Revue. 
Fania  retaliated  in  an  unforeseen  fashion.  In- 
stead of  shrewing  it  over  Venable,  she  adopted  a 
tone  of  commiseration ;  it  was  nothing  to  her  if 
he  could  not  see  his  opportunities,  if  he  persisted 
in  sculping  little  nobodies,  in  whom  Paris  had  no 
interest,  when  he  might  be  making  himself  fam- 
ous. From  that,  she  passed  to  his  shortcomings 
as  a  lover.  He  had.no  imagination.  It  was 
enough  to  endure  stupidity  when  one  was  well 
paid !  Words  passed  between  them  that  are  not 
commonly  reported  in  the  public  prints.  Ven- 


PEGGY-ELISE  171 

able  slammed  on  his  hat  and  went  out.  Down- 
stairs, he  found  a  letter  from  Peggy-Elise  — just 
the  sight  of  her  handwriting  quieted  something 
of  the  mental  hurly-burly.  One  page  he  read 
twice : 

' ;  I  have  reasoned  it  all  out,  mon  ami.  We  have  two 
sides — the  weak  and  the  strong.  When  we  yield  to 
passion  the  weak  side  rules — the  worst  of  us  coines  to 
the  top ;  but  if  there  is  love  with  it,  it  brings  out  un- 
selfishness and  all  the  best  things,  to  balance  the  other 
side.  I  might  have  lived  with  you,  Gilbert,  if  you 
had  loved  me.  But  I  think  if  you  had,  you  would  not 
have  wanted  me  to. 

' '  I  know  you  will  shrug  and  be  impatient  over  what 
[  have  said  —  but  it  is  true.  When  a  man  really  loves, 
he  wants  to  pay  a  woman  the  highest  compliment  in 
his  power,  and  I  think  no  man  can  feel  that  it  is  a 
higher  compliment  to  make  a  woman  his  mistress  than 
to  make  her  his  wife.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me  ? ' ' 

Peggy  was  right;  ordinarily,  Venable  would 
have  shrugged  aside  her  words;  but,  coming  at 
the  psychological  moment,  they  caused  an  intense 
reaction,  and  he  hailed  them  as  pure  wisdom. 
In  a  flash,  he  saw  how  he  had  deteriorated  in 
these  few  weeks  with  Fania ;  his  temper  had  be- 
come as  ungovernable  as  hers;  he  had  matched 
coarseness  with  coarseness  and  violence  with  vio- 
lence in  the  fury  of  their  quarrels;  he  had  par- 
ried her  jealousy  with  petty  lies;  he  had  grown 


172  PEGGY-ELISE 

indifferent  to  his  work  —  the  "  weak  "  side  of 
him  had  certainly  been  uppermost.  Married  life 
loomed,  suddenly,  as  the  most  desirable  of  human 
states  —  quiet,  respectable,  married  life. 

As  he  was  returning  to  his  studio  that  after- 
noon, he  met  an  elderly  gentleman,  elegantly,  al- 
most foppishly  dressed,  ascending  the  stairs. 
It  developed  that  he  had  called  to  see  Venable  in 
connection  with  the  Phryne.  Venable  was  re- 
lieved to  find  the  studio  empty.  The  visitor, 
Prince  Ignace  Pulaski,  recently  arrived  from 
Rome,  had  seen  the  Phryne  in  the  Revue,  that 
morning,  and  had  hastened  to  inspect  the  orig- 
inal. He  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  anything  so 
perfect  —  he  could  have  no  peace  until  he  had 
added  this  masterpiece  to  his  collection.  He  of- 
fered Venable  a  sum  for  it  that  staggered  him; 
yet  in  the  next  breath  he  wondered  if  he  were  be- 
ing cheated.  If  it  was  as  good  as  Pulaski  said, 
might  he  not  be  wiser  to  hold  it  longer?  But 
then  it  might  be  that  the  prince  had  a  special 
fancy  for  it  and  had  overvalued  it.  In  the  end, 
he  accepted  his  check.  He  was  showing  him 
some  of  his  other  work,  when  Fania  came  in,  clad 
in  a  brilliant  green  gown  and  sumptuous  sables. 

The  prince,  having  been  introduced,  elatedly 
informed  her  that  he  was  now  the  possessor  of 
the  Phryne  —  what  did  she  think  of  it?  Fania 
thought  it  was  rarely  beautiful,  but  she  said  it 


PEGGY-ELISE  173 

absently  with  her  eyes  fixed  fascinatedly  on  the 
prince.  Venable  watched  her  with  indifference 
—  he  suddenly  saw  the  whole  callousness  of  her. 
When  she  rose  to  leave,  the  prince  rose,  too. 
She  bade  her  erstwhile  lover  a  gay  good-by. 
Three  days  later,  he  saw  her  driving  in  the  Bois 
with  the  prince. 

At  first,  Venable  was  demoralized;  he  suffered 
all  the  agonies  of  adjustment  of  the  opium  fiend 
who  has  been  newly  deprived  of  his  drug.  He 
had  no  appetite  and  he  slept  badly.  The  studio 
depressed  him  horribly  —  it  seemed  still  to  vi- 
brate violently  with  Fania's  frenzies,  and  the 
Phryne's  empty  pedestal  filled  him  with  loneli- 
ness—  it  had  been  a  very  tangible  link  with 
Peggy-EHse.  He  dallied  with  the  thought  of 
Peggy  —  she  still  baffled  him,  piqued  his  vanity. 
He  speculated  much  about  her. 

When  he  told  his  friends  he  was  going  to  Amer- 
ica, they  recalled  Peggy-Elise.  He  admitted  he 
meant  to  marry  her,  if  it  were  not  too  late.  They 
tried  to  dissuade  him,  offering  the  stereotyped 
arguments  against  marriage;  it  would  ruin  his 
career,  shut  him  off  from  inspiring  affairs.  He 
interrupted  them  with  a  sardonic  laugh.  He 
said  he  had  never  had  an  "inspiring"  affair  in 
his  life  —  that,  in  fact,  he  had  never  found  any- 
thing so  inspiring  as  Peggy-Elise's  understand- 
ing and  artistic  intuition. 


174  PEGGY-ELISE 

They  were  very  glum  —  they  could  see  nothing 
before  him  except  oblivion.  Armstrong  said  it 
was  all  tommy-rot  —  a  reaction  from  the  last  af- 
fair —  that  Fania  was  the  exception  and  not  the 
rule.  Venable  shook  his  head.  Vernet  even  of- 
fered him  his  new  mistress.  "  She  would  soon 
prefer  your  charms  to  mine,  mon  vieux,"  he 
urged  humorously.  Venable  was  touched  by 
their  affection,  but  he  remained  obdurate. 

That  night  he  wrote  Peggy-Elise  that  he  was 
coming  to  America. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AUSTEN  kept  his  word  and  invited  Giles 
Winthrop  to  the  house.  All  through  din- 
ner he  hoped  for  an  opening  in  which  to  refer 
casually  to  Isabelle's  voice  —  not  even  the  dread 
of  his  wife's  biting  tongue  could  have  induced 
him  to  introduce  the  subject  abruptly,  after  the 
manner  of  many  parents  with  accomplished  off- 
spring —  but  his  hope  was  disappointed. 

In  the  den,  over  their  after-dinner  cigars,  Mr. 
Austen  had  momentarily  forgotten  his  paternal 
obligation,  when  Isabelle,  in  the  next  room,  be- 
gan to  play  the  piano,  remindingly.  He  racked 
his  brain  for  some  legitimate  excuse  for  asking 
his  friend  to  listen  to  her;  he  had  too  little  par- 
ental egotism  to  imagine  that  a  man  of  Win- 
throp's  broad  musical  culture  would  find  enter- 
tainment in  her  amateurish  efforts. 

Peggy  slipped  into  the  library  that  adjoined 
the  den,  to  get  her  knitting;  Isabelle,  in  the  liv- 
ing-room, was  playing  the  opening  bars  of  the 
"  Vissi  d'Arte."  Peggy  sang  it  softly  to  herself ; 
her  tones  were  pure  and  full  —  her  pianissimo 
had  none  of  the  usual  wispy  thinness.  Win- 
throp listened  in  astonishment.  To  him,  the  ro- 
175 


176  PEGGY-ELISE 

mance,  the  great  adventure  of  life  was  to  discover 
a  rare  voice.  Let  any  one  hint  that  in  a  certain 
corner  of  the  world  there  was  one  worth  hearing, 
and  though  it  were  in  Thibetan  fastnesses  he 
would  be  off  the  next  hour  in  quest  of  it.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  that  most  persons'  judgment 
was  unreliable,  because  they  lacked  a  refined  mu- 
sical sense,  and,  as  a  consequence,  he  had  run 
down  many  coarse,  or  harsh,  or  hollow  voices; 
still  nothing  could  restrain  him  —  it  was  a  pas- 
sion. The  Metropolitan  owed  to  him  three  of  its 
best  artists.  Now,  as  he  heard  Peggy's  voice,  his 
pulses  leaped;  Mr.  Austen  had  not  mentioned 
that  there  was  a  singer  in  the  house. 

"Does  your  daughter  sing?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes  —  a  little,"  Mr.  Austen  said  cautiously, 
too  relieved  to  realize  how  the  miracle  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  I  'd  like  to  hear  her,"  Winthrop's  manner  was 
eager. 

Isabelle  always  had  to  be  coaxed  to  sing;  it 
was  as  hard  to  start  her  as  it  was  to  stop  her. 
She  made  no  exception  of  the  present  occasion. 
Only  her  youth  and  prettiness  saved  her  protests 
from  utter  ineptness.  Winthrop  said,  amiably, 
that  one  always  expected  artists  to  be  nervous. 
She  blushed  but  betrayed  none  of  the  traditional 
agitation. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  accompany  me,  Peggy,"  she 


PEGGY-ELISE  177 

said,  finally  going  to  the  piano  with  an  amazing 
air  of  assurance. 

Peggy  dropped  her  knitting  into  Anne's  lap 
—  she  sat  on  a  hassock  at  her  feet  —  and  went  to 
the  piano.  The  "  Vissi  d'Arte  "  lay  open  on  the 
rack.  Isabelle  motioned  toward  it. 

Winthrop  listened  blankly,  as  the  first  phrases 
issued  from  her  lips.  She  had  a  small,  rather 
pretty  voice,  badly  produced,  and  marred  by  the 
worst  mannerisms  of  several  famous  singers. 
She  had  no  power  of  interpretation;  her  work 
was  wholly  imitative.  His  nerves  were  on  edge 
by  the  time  she  had  finished.  This  was  not  the 
voice  he  had  heard. 

He  let  her  down,  with  politely  evasive  phrases. 
She  had  a  charming  voice,  he  said,  but  it  was  im- 
mature; that  time,  and  only  time,  brought  the 
maturity  necessary  for  professional  appearance; 
that  she  must  be  very  careful  not  to  strain  it, 
etc.,  etc. 

Isabelle  argued  that  many  singers  had  gone 
into  grand  opera  in  their  'teens.  He  admitted 
that  this  happened  among  the  Latins,  where  girls 
matured  very  young.  Mr.  Austen  asked  if  Italy 
produced  more  singers  than  Germany;  the  con- 
versation became  general.  Winthrop  was  preoc- 
cupied. He  wondered  why  Isabelle  had  been  put 
forward  when  there  was  in  the  house  the  rare 
voice  he  had  overheard. 


178  PEGGY-ELISE 

He  glanced  several  times  at  Peggy's  sensitive 
profile  —  she  had  that  indefinable  look  of  a  singer 
—  she  interested  him  intensely ;  but  if  she  sang, 
why  did  no  one  mention  the  fact?  There  re- 
mained only  Mrs.  Austen.  To  his  question,  she 
replied  that  Isabelle  was  the  only  song-bird  in 
the  house. 

"  Why,  Mother !  Peggy  sings,"  Anne  ex- 
claimed. "  She  sings  beautifully." 

Winthrop  turned  eagerly  to  the  girl.  She 
shook  her  head,  nervous  and  distressed  by  the 
turn  of  affairs. 

"  Yes,  she  does !  "  Anne  insisted. 

"  I  sing  just  to  please  the  little  one,"  Peggy 
explained.  "  She  is  not  a  judge." 

"  Her  voice  goes  all  through  you,"  Anne  de- 
clared obstinately. 

"  Sing  something  for  us,  Peggy,"  her  uncle 
urged,  understanding  her  reluctance.  "  I  don't 
think  I  've  ever  heard  you." 

Peggy  hesitated;  she  did  not  want  to  antag- 
onize her  aunt,  nor  to  prejudice  Isabelle's 
chances,  if  she  had  any.  Suddenly,  her  common- 
sense  asserted  itself;  this  was  a  heaven-sent  op- 
portunity —  she  had  just  as  much  right  to  take 
advantage  of  it  as  her  cousin  had.  She  remem- 
bered what  Venable  had  said  —  that  you  could 
not  get  ahead  without  "pull."  She  seated  her- 
self at  the  piano.  Winthrop  leaned  forward, 


PEGGY-ELISE  179 

eagerly  attentive,  as  she  played  the  brief  intro- 
duction to  "  La  Chevelure." 

He  sat  motionless,  almost  breathless,  until  the 
strange,  disturbing  dissonance  came  to  its  hushed 
rest  in  the  final  chord.  Peggy's  voice,  impas- 
sioned, thrilling,  poignantly  sweet,  amazed  all 
her  listeners.  There  was  a  moment  of  absolute 
stillness,  when  she  finished.  Then  Anne  threw 
her  arms  around  her,  with  a  sob.  It  broke  the 
tension.  Mr.  Austen  was  too  moved  to  speak — 
he  did  not  dare  even  to  look  at  his  niece.  Isa- 
belle  and  her  mother  wore  strained  smiles.  Win- 
throp's  eyes  glowed  with  admiration  and  excite- 
ment —  Peggy  was  a  rare  find.  She  had  not  only 
a  voice  of  divine  quality,  pure,  golden,  but  she 
had  almost  perfect  production  —  her  tones 
floated.  Also  she  had  intensity,  dramatic  power, 
and  that  artistic  restraint  that  comes  usually 
only  with  long  experience. 

"With  whom  did  you  study,  Mademoiselle?" 
he  asked. 

"With  Madame  Simon  —  she  and  my  father 
were  very  dear  friends." 

"  Do  you  mean  Clementine  Simon  — ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  he  nodded.  "  She  is  very  fine 
—  she  is  a  pupil  of  old  Lamperti.  I  knew  her 
when  she  was  the  rage  in  Paris  —  she  had  a  beau- 
tiful voice." 


180  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Her  voice  is  still  beautiful,"  Peggy  said  en- 
thusiastically. "  She  does  n't  sing  any  more, 
but  she  gave  me  the  arias  for  solfeggi,  and  when 
I  got  them  wrong,  she  would  do  them  for  me." 

"  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  Mademoi- 
selle Lascelles  is  your  niece? "  Winthrop  in- 
quired, when  he  and  Mr.  Austen  were  once  more 
ensconced  in  the  study. 

"  Well,  she  is  my  wife's  niece  —  her  sister  mar- 
ried Andre  Lascelles  — a  musician  —  violinist,  I 
think,  in  Paris." 

"  I  see." 

"  She  came  to  live  with  us  a  couple  of  months 
ago,  after  her  father's  death  —  he  fell  at  Le  Mort 
Homme." 

"  I  see,  I  see."  Winthrop  would  have  liked  to 
ask  many  questions,  but  it  was  a  delicate  situa- 
tion; he  suspected  that  it  had  been  the  Austen 
girl's  intention  to  keep  her  gifted  cousin  in  the 
background.  And  why  had  Austen  never  heard 
the  niece  sing? 

Mr.  Austen  sensed  his  friend's  preoccupation. 
He  attributed  it  to  Peggy.  He  himself  had  been 
shattered  by  her  singing,  but  he  did  not  appre- 
ciate her  artistry  —  he  had  only  been  moved  by 
it ;  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  it  might  be  Peggy's 
voice,  only,  and  not  herself  that  had  so  impressed 
Winthrop. 

The  girl  went  to  her  room  early.     She  was  mis- 


PEGGY-ELISE  181 

erable.  Winthrop  had  seemed  to  like  her  work, 
yet  he  had  not  said  a  word  in  praise  of  it.  With 
the  tormenting  self-depreciation  of  the  artist,  she 
was  convinced  of  her  own  mediocrity.  She 
wished  she  had  not  sung  "  La  Chevelure  " —  so 
many  people  did  not  care  for  Debussy  —  and 
then,  she  was  out  of  practice.  Having  tried,  use- 
lessly, to  read,  or  to  write  letters,  she  had  just 
decided  to  go  to  bed  when  her  uncle  called  her. 
He  wanted  some  notes  he  had  made  for  an  opera 
libretto;  where  had  Peggy  put  them,  when  she 
straightened  out  his  manuscripts?  She  said  it 
wrould  be  easier  to  get  them  than  to  try  to  tell 
him  where  they  were. 

She  found  them,  and  was  about  to  leave  the 
study  when  Winthrop  said : 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  wish  my  old  friend  Debussy 
could  have  heard  you  sing  '  La  Chevelure,'  to- 
night." 

"  Monsieur ! "  was  all  Peggy  could  articulate ; 
her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
happy  tears. 

"  Have  you  no  ambition  to  make  use  of  your 
rare  gifts?  "  he  inquired  gently. 

She  gestured  with  her  hands,  to  indicate  the 
impossibility  of  speech. 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  touched,  "  when 
you  wish  to  begin  work,  come  to  me  —  I  think 
I  may  be  able  to  help  you." 


182  PEGGY-ELISE 

Peggy  left  the  room,  in  a  daze. 

There  was  a  bitter  scene,  the  next  day.  Mrs. 
Austen  accused  her  husband  of  having  brought 
Winthrop  to  the  house  solely  to  hear  Peggy  — 
any  one  could  see  through  it!  Mr.  Austen  was 
dumbfounded.  She  intimated  that  he  was  in- 
fatuated with  her  niece  —  that  they  were  deceiv- 
ing her.  The  partial  truth  of  her  charge  blunted 
his  indignation  —  left  it  unconvincing. 

Nothing  was  said,  outright,  to  Peggy,  but  the 
situation  became  intolerably  strained;  she  de- 
cided to  leave  her  aunt's  household  before  there 
should  be  an  open  break.  She  had  saved  a  little 
money,  she  was  still  posing  for  Hiller,  and  her 
sense  of  strangeness,  in  America,  had  worn  off; 
she  knew  she  would  be  able  to  manage.  She 
meant  to  get  in  touch  with  Winthrop,  as  soon  as 
possible. 

When  she  announced  her  decision,  Anne  had 
one  of  the  few  storms  of  weeping  that  had  char- 
acterized her  singularly  tearless  childhood. 
When  her  sister  came  to  comfort  her,  she  pushed 
her  away.  "  I  hope  you  're  satisfied,  now,  Is 
Austen !  " 

Mrs.  Austen  smiled  cynically  when  Peggy  said 
she  felt  herself  an  added  expense;  she  remem- 
bered that  the  girl  had  posed  for  the  Phryne,  and 
believed  that  she  wanted  freedom  only  for  a  lax 


PEGGY-ELISE  183 

life.  She  was  convinced  that  her  husband  had 
manceuvered  the  change. 

Through  a  woman  friend  of  her  uncle,  Peggy 
located  in  a  tiny  attic  room,  in  Patchin  Place. 
She  was  enchanted  with  Greenwich  Village;  in 
its  quaintly  haphazard  laying  out  of  streets,  that 
ran  unexpectedly,  delightfully,  and  often  bewil- 
deringly  into  themselves  and  each  other,  it  re- 
minded her  of  Paris.  She  prowled  about,  ec- 
statically. She  found  the  little  French  bakery, 
where  she  could  get  real  brioches,  and  discovered 
other  French  shops.  She  felt  at  home  for  the 
first  time  since  she  had  been  in  America.  The 
people  she  met  —  even  the  ones  she  saw  on  the 
street  —  had  a  certain  charm ;  they  were  like  the 
types  in  the  Quarter  —  often  absurd,  but  at  least 
sincere  in  their  absurdity.  She  loved  their  ar- 
dent, clever,  humorous  or  wildly  tragic,  faces;  it 
stimulated  her  just  to  look  at  them  —  there  was 
such  passion  for  life,  such  rebellion  against  stag- 
nation. She  breathed  it  in  and  felt  renewed. 

Flo  Kipp  called  Mrs.  Austen  up,  one  morning, 
about  two  weeks  after  Peggy's  departure.  In  the 
course  of  their  chat  she  said,  in  her  breezy  way : 

"  My  dear,  you  must  go  down  with  us,  some 
time,  to  Greenwich  Village !  A  crowd  of  us  went, 
the  other  night,  to  the  '  Dutch  Oven ' —  such 
crazy  people,  my  dear !  —  you  never  saw  such 


184  PEGGY-ELISE 

freaks!  Did  your  husband  mention  seeing  me? 
He  had  the  prettiest  little  girl  with  him !  Who 
is  she?" 

"  What  was  she  like?  "  Mrs.  Austen  inquired 
carelessly,  though  her  throat  contracted  on  the 
words. 

"  Oh  —  tawny,  my  dear  —  quite  beautiful  eyes 
and  mouth  —  very  chic  —  she  looked  French." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  in  an  offhand  manner, 
"  that  was  Peggy  —  my  niece,  you  know." 

"O-oh?" 

Mrs.  Austen  winced  under  her  friend's  inflec- 
tion. 

"She's  very  pretty  —  isn't  she?"  Mrs.  Kipp 
said,  and  began  making  arrangements  for  the 
matinee. 

When  Mrs.  Austen  hung  up  the  receiver,  she 
had  a  nauseating  headache.  What  she  had  just 
heard,  confirmed  her  growing  suspicions.  There 
was  no  reason,  of  course,  why  her  husband  should 
not  have  taken  Peggy  to  supper;  it  was  his  not 
having  mentioned  it  that  was  so  damningly  sig- 
nificant. She  sat  at  the  telephone  desk,  for  a 
long  time,  recalling  every  little  detail  that  might 
establish  her  husband's  infidelity.  When  the 
telephone  rang,  again,  she  put  the  receiver  to  her 
ear  absently,  then  listened,  galvanized.  A  tele- 
gram w^as  being  transmitted  over  the  wire ;  it  an- 


PEGGY-ELISE  185 

nounced  the  death  of  her  godfather,  from  apo- 
plexy, on  his  way  to  California. 

She  was  horribly  shocked.  She  had  seen  him, 
only  a  few  days  before,  in  perfect  health.  In 
spite  of  herself,  she  could  not  help  realizing  how 
his  death  would  alter  her  affairs ;  she  was  his  sole 
heir.  This  meant  the  end  of  her  whole  make- 
shifting,  dreary,  eventless  existence  —  how  she 
longed  for  beautiful  clothes,  for  money  enough  to 
play  her  beloved  bridge  without  the  humiliation 
of  having  to  confess  her  debts  to  her  husband,  and 
of  being  curtain-lectured  for  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  conditions  for  which,  she  felt,  he  alone 
was  responsible.  She  speculated,  though  feel- 
ing that  it  was  a  little  indecent,  on  the  probable 
extent  of  her  godfather's  fortune ;  she  concluded, 
from  the  rate  at  which  he  had  lived,  that  he 
must  have  been  worth  at  least  a  half-million. 

The  staggering  truth  was  that  he  had  lived  up 
to  and  far  beyond  his  means ;  his  little  remaining 
property  barely  covered  his  debts.  There  was  an 
insurance  for  ten  thousand  dollars,  in  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten's favor  —  and  that  was  all.  She  thought 
there  must  be  some  mistake,  but  there  was  none. 

"  Uncle  said  so  often  that  he  had  provided  for 
me ! "  she  complained  bitterly  to  her  husband ; 
she  was  sick  from  disappointment.  "  But  I  sup- 
pose it 's  what  I  might  have  expected  —  he  just 


186  PEGGY-ELISE 

threw  money  away  —  and  he  never  denied  him- 
self anything !  How  long  will  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars last?  "  she  demanded  indignantly. 

"  Not  very  long  —  unless  you  make  a  wise  use 
of  it,"  he  concurred. 

"  What  do  you  mean  — '  make  a  wise  use  of 
it1?"  Her  tone  was  hostile. 

"  I  mean  that,  in  our  circumstances,  it  might 
be  made  to  go  a  very  long  way  —  we  might  get 
out  of  debt,  for  instance." 

"  And  then  what?  "  she  asked,  with  forced  pa- 
tience. 

He  hesitated. 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  had  an  easy  mind  —  I  could 
give  up  this  editorial  job,  and  write  —  in  a  year 
we  'd  be  on  our  feet."  He  could  not  keep  the  wild 
hope  out  of  his  voice  and  eyes. 

She  sneered. 

"  You  have  n't  much  confidence  in  me  —  have 
you?  "  he  said. 

"  No !  I  have  n't !  You  've  had  enough  time, 
in  the  last  ten  years,  to  have  written  a  dozen 
books!" 

"  No  one  can  write,  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy 
all  the  time !  " 

"  Well,  do  you  think  it 's  been  easy  for  me?  " 
she  retorted  angrily.  "  I  could  scream  when  I 
go  into  your  study  and  find  you  adding  up  your 


PEGGY-ELISE  187 

debts!  Those  little  papers,  with  their  eternal 
columns  of  neat  little  figures,  have  driven  me  al- 
most insane !  I  'm  sick  of  it  all  —  I  can't  stand 
any  more  of  it !  I  'm  going  to  have  a  good  time 
with  this  money  —  and  I  don't  care  what  happens 
afterward ! " 

"  In  that  event,"  he  said,  in  an  icy  voice,  "  we  'd 
better  have  an  understanding."  He  paced  the 
floor  several  times,  his  head  bent.  "  I  judge  that 
you  and  the  children  can  live  for  a  year  on  ten 
thousand  dollars  —  however  extravagant  you  are, 
and  I  'm  going  to  take  advantage  of  the  fact,  to 
go  away  somewhere,  by  myself,  and  do  my  work 
—  I  owe  it  to  myself !  I  'm  not  going  down  to 
my  grave,  with  the  conviction  that  I  was  a  fail- 
ure, simply  because  I  never  had  a  chance  to  prove 
to  the  contrary !  You  don't  understand  my  ambi- 
tions —  you  've  never  even  tried  to ! "  he  con- 
cluded bitterly. 

"  I  should  think  your  ambition  would  be  to 
make  your  wife  and  children  happy,  instead  of 
forcing  us  to  every  shift,  to  keep  up  appearances, 
and  not  let  people  know  what  a  failure  you  are! 
You  seem  to  think  I  have  no  pride !  "  Her  blue 
eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"I  think  your  pride  should  be  a  little  con- 
cerned with  making  a  success  of  your  end  of  the 
bargain!" 


188  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  I  make  as  good  a  showing  as  any  one  could, 
on  what  I  have !  Every  one  imagines  we  are  a  lot 
better  off  than  we  are !  " 

"  Good  God !  Is  that  your  only  conception  of 
success?  " 

"  Well  I  'd  like  to  see  any  one  do  better !  "  she 
stormed. 

Mr.  Austen  packed  a  suitcase,  did  up  a  bundle 
of  manuscripts,  and  left  the  house  the  next  morn- 
ing, before  any  one  was  up.  If  necessary,  he 
meant  to  borrow  enough  to  see  him  through  a 
year;  but,  at  the  office,  he  found  a  letter  from 
Merrit,  announcing  that  he  had  accepted  his 
scenario,  "  Labor,"  and  enclosing  a  check  for  fif- 
teen hundred  dollars.  Mr.  Austen  felt  that  Fate 
was  with  him. 

During  the  day,  he  called  up  his  wife,  and  told 
her  that  he  would  not  see  her  again,  until  he  had 
finished  the  book  he  intended  to  write ;  he  refused 
to  say  where  he  was  going.  She  replied  that  if 
he  went,  he  need  never  come  back.  He  said  that 
was  up  to  her.  She  hung  up  the  receiver,  her 
head  whirling.  She  had  not  believed  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  night  before,  that  he  would  execute  his 
threat!  And  she  utterly  discredited  the  reason 
he  had  given  for  going;  doubtless,  it  was  his  in- 
tention to  have  Peggy  with  him  —  that  was  why 
he  would  not  tell  her  where  he  was  to  be. 


PEGGY-ELISE  189 

She  told  the  children  that  their  father  had 
gone  out  of  town,  for  a  few  days,  on  business. 
She  waited  a  torturing  week  for  him  to  return. 
Then  she  could  bear  the  strain  no  longer.  She 
went  to  Patchin  Place,  hoping  to  either  confront 
her  husband  with  Peggy,  or  to  learn  that  the  girl 
had  quitted  her  lodgings.  But  she  was  there,  and 
in  bed,  with  a  cold  —  she  had  n't  been  even  out- 
side the  door  for  a  week.  Of  Mr.  Austen's  disap- 
pearance, she  knew  only  from  a  letter  she  had 
received  from  him.  He  hoped  she  would  come, 
later  on,  to  see  him. 

In  her  relief,  Mrs.  Austen  felt  a  sudden  friend- 
liness for  her  niece  —  she  was  thin,  and  she  had  a 
bad  cough. 

"  I  think  you  'd  better  come  home  —  and  let  us 
take  care  of  you."  Her  manner  was  tinged  with 
embarrassment. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  Peggy  pressed  her  hand, 
"  but  I  am  all  right,  here  —  every  one  is  so  good 
tome!" 

When  Mrs.  Austen  left,  she  ordered  more  deli- 
cacies sent  up  to  the  girl  than  she  could  possibly 
eat  in  a  month.  She  was  shocked  by  her  quar- 
ters; to  her,  used  to  conventional  surroundings, 
they  seemed  unthinkably  mean  and  depressing. 
She  was  very  uncomfortable  over  it;  she  knew 
that  her  sister  Mary  —  Peggy's  mother  —  would 


190  PEGGY-ELISE 

never  have  permitted  a  child  of  hers,  Isabelle,  for 
example,  to  leave  the  shelter  of  her  roof,  while 
she  had  one. 

On  the  way  home,  she  considered  divorcing  her 
husband  later  on,  on  the  grounds  of  desertion; 
but  she  knew  her  pride  would  never  let  her  admit 
she  had  been  deserted  —  she  would  carry  off  his 
absence,  somehow.  She  wondered  if  he  had 
really  gone  away,  just  to  work;  it  was  unimag- 
inable —  and  yet  —  she  half  believed  him.  She 
felt  a  dawning  admiration  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  she  read  Venable's  letter,  Peggy 
dropped  weakly  into  a  chair,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  heart  shaking  her  body  with  the  im- 
pact of  its  beat.  It  announced  that  he  would  be 
in  America,  by  the  end  of  December,  and  that 
longing  for  "  his  little  Peggy-Elise  "  was  bringing 
him.  Things  should  be  the  way  she  wanted  them, 
now,  he  said.  He  told  her  briefly  of  the  affair 
with  Fania  —  did  she  remember  who  Fania  was? 
—  into  which  loneliness,  he  averred,  had  plunged 
him,  and  out  of  which  he  had  come,  a  happier  and 
wiser  man. 

As  Peggy  read,  she  could  hear  his  magnetic 
voice,  could  see  his  handsome  face  bent  persua- 
sively over  her,  and  she  yearned  passionately  for 
him.  But  though  her  heart  was  wholly  satisfied 
with  the  letter  her  reason  sat  back,  critically,  and 
advised  that  she  reread  it.  She  did  so.  Finally, 
she  had  to  admit  that  Venable's  altered  attitude 
might  be  due  to  a  reaction,  and  that  there  was 
just  a  hint  of  pride  in  his  reference  to  the  Rebi- 
koff  affair. 

After  a  sleepless  night,  she  called  up  Giles 

191 


192  PEGGY-ELISE 

Winthrop;  she  had  tried  twice  before  to  get  him, 
but  he  had  been  out  of  town.  Even  over  the  tele- 
phone, his  pleasure  at  hearing  from  her  was  obvi- 
ous. He  proposed  that  they  have  lunch  together 
and  talk  things  over. 

Apart  from  ambition,  Peggy  was  very  eager  to 
get  into  opera  now ;  she  realized  that  if  she  were 
still  posing  for  Hiller  when  Venable  arrived,  she 
could  scarcely  refuse  to  pose  for  him ;  and  if  she 
consented  there  would  be  the  old  difficult  inti- 
macy with  its  inevitable  temptation.  But  far  be- 
yond the  rather  remote  possibility  of  drifting  into 
relations  to  which  she  was  opposed  was  the  need 
of  an  unanswerable  argument,  should  Venable  de- 
sire to  marry  her,  as  his  letter  implied. 

It  had  come  to  her  in  the  night,  as  a  result  of 
relentlessly  facing  facts,  that  though  there  were 
artists  who  should  marry,  Venable  was  not  one  of 
them.  It  was  a  matter  of  character;  some  shoul- 
dered responsibilities  and  worked  better  for  hav- 
ing them;  others  avoided  them  as  a  hindrance. 
Venable  was  of  these.  Peggy  feared  that  his  new 
state  of  mind  would  be  of  short  duration,  and 
she  was  determined  that  he  should  not  ruin  both 
their  lives.  If  he  were  bent  on  marrying  her,  the 
only  obstacle  that  might  balk  him  would  be  a 
career  of  hers  that  must  not  be  hampered. 

Winthrop  took  her  to  lunch  at  Delmonico's. 
She  assured  him  she  had  never  eaten  such  deli- 


PEGGY-ELISE  193 

cious  food  in  her  life  —  it  was  the  apotheosis 
of  cooking.  He  was  delighted.  They  talked 
French,  throughout  the  meal;  he  addressed  the 
waiters  in  French  —  Peggy  had  the  illusion  of 
being  back  in  her  own  country.  She  was  at  her 
gayest.  Winthrop  was  thrilled  as  he  looked  into 
her  deep  gray  eyes,  starry  with  pleasure  and  ex- 
citement. She  would  be  beautiful  on  the  stage. 
And  with  her  voice  and  temperament  — 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  Peggy  asked,  for  his 
face  had  suddenly  taken  on  an  expression  of  half- 
humorous  chagrin. 

He  laughed. 

"  I  was  just  wondering  how  it  will  turn  out, 
with  you  —  singers  are  a  gamble,  mademoiselle." 
With  a  kind  of  whimsical  despair,  he  related  some 
of  his  experiences.  Once,  in  California,  he 
thought  he  had  found  a  successor  to  Patti  —  the 
woman  was  young,  handsome ;  she  had  a  magnifi- 
cent voice,  and  a  surplus  of  temperament ;  but  she 
had  been  simply  too  lazy  to  make  the  effort  nec- 
essary to  memorize  a  r61e;  in  addition,  she  was 
insanely  egotistical  and  had  a  fiendish  temper. 
Then  there  was  the  case  of  Sarah  Rabinowitz. 
He  had  discovered  her  singing  in  an  East  Side 
synagogue,  of  which  her  father  was  the  rabbi. 
She  had  the  languorous,  Semitic  beauty;  her 
voice  was  both  sympathetic  and  brilliant  and  of 
phenomenal  range.  It  was  arranged  that  she 


194  PEGGY-ELISE 

should  study  for  a  year  —  she  had  had  good 
training.  Three  days  later,  Winthrop  was  in- 
formed that  Sarah  was  in  Bellevue.  It  was  use- 
less to  inquire  of  her  father  what  was  the  matter 
—  he  spoke  no  English.  Winthrop  had  rushed 
to  the  hospital,  like  a  madman,  only  to  learn  that 
she  was  in  the  psychopathic  ward  —  she  had 
"  spells,"  and  had  to  be  taken  there  often. 

Peggy  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  can  only  assure  you,  monsieur,  that 
I  am  neither  lazy  nor  crazy !  " 

As  a  result  of  their  talk,  Winthrop,  himself, 
took  her  to  Signor  Ferro-Ganacci,  the  following 
Thursday.  A  rehearsal  was  in  progress  when 
they  entered,  and  they  had  to  wait  a  few  minutes. 
At  the  sound  of  the  orchestra,  Peggy's  hand  flew 
to  her  throat  and  she  trembled  violently.  It 
brought  her  father  back,  as  she  had  seen  him, 
thousands  of  times,  leaving  for  the  Opera,  violin- 
case  in  hand.  She  had  a  curious  feeling  that  he 
wras  near  —  to  help  her,  perhaps.  For  a  moment 
the  tears  threatened,  but  she  controlled  herself. 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  tells  me  you  have  a  very  good 
soprano  voice,"  Signor  Ferro-Ganacci  said, 
studying  her  from  under  bent  brows.  "  You 
know  '  Boh&ne  '?  "  he  inquired  presently.  Some- 
thing about  her  suggested  Mimi  to  him. 

She  said  she  did. 

"All     right."     He     nodded.     "We'll     have 


PEGGY-ELISE  195 

'  Mimf  s  song ' —  unless  there  is  something  you 
would  prefer?  " 

"  I  will  sing  that." 

When  Peggy  found  herself  standing  alone  in 
the  middle  of  that  vast  stage,  sensed  the  bigness 
of  the  darkened  auditorium,  and  saw  Winthrop 
and  Ferro-Ganacci  vanishing  up  the  aisle  toward 
the  back  of  the  house,  she  had  a  moment  of  panic ; 
she  would  never  be  able  to  make  herself  heard. 
Then  she  began  to  sing.  It  was  an  agonizing 
experience.  She  knew  from  her  moving  lips,  and 
her  interior  sensations  that  she  was  producing 
tones,  but  she  could  not  hear  them.  Though  the 
orchestra  was  playing  softly,  her  voice  blended 
with  it  and  was  lost  in  it  —  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  sung  with  one.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  song,  she  began  to  distinguish  a  sound  that 
had  a  human  quality,  and  concluded  that  this  was 
her  voice.  By  the  time  she  reached  the  brief  final 
unaccompanied  recitative,  she  had  so  lost  herself 
in  her  work  that  the  cessation  of  the  orchestra 
did  not  startle  her.  As  her  last  bell-like,  plain- 
tive tones  died,  she  realized  that  she  was  stand- 
ing with  her  hands  outstretched  in  a  little  apolo- 
getic gesture  that  the  words  had  inspired.  Then 
there  came  the  more  poignant  realization  that 
her  future  had  been  determined  by  the  quality 
of  the  work  she  had  just  done.  Fortunately,  she 
was  diverted  from  this  consideration  by  the  sight 


196  PEGGY-ELISE 

of  the  two  men,  returning  down  the  aisle.  They 
were  talking  animatedly. 

"  Mademoiselle," —  Signor  Ferro-Ganacci  en- 
tered the  orchestra  enclosure  — "  are  you  famil- 
iar with  '  The  Barber '?  " 

Peggy  hesitated. 

"  No,  monsieur  —  I  know  only  the  aria  — 
1  Una  Voce  Poco  Fa.'  " 

"  Good !  That  is  what  I  wish  to  hear.  You 
are  nervous?  " 

"  Vn  pen,"  she  admitted,  falling  into  French, 
in  her  excitement. 

"  It  is  natural."  He  flashed  her  a  sympathetic 
smile,  and  rejoined  Winthrop. 

It  took  a  few  moments  to  get  the  scores  and 
distribute  them.  There  was  the  swish  of  turn- 
ing pages,  then  silence,  as  the  conductor  raised 
his  baton. 

For  a  sickening  second,  Peggy  wondered  if  she 
would  be  able  to  do  the  aria  —  she  was  out  of 
practice,  and  it  called  for  great  agility ;  but  she 
had  no  time  to  think. 

As  she  sang  the  traditional  cadenza,  that  was 
interpolated  by  a  famous  coloratura  —  and  has 
been  sung  since  by  any  whose  range  included  it 
—  sang  it  brilliantly,  with  perfect  mastery,  and 
stopped  on  a  triumphant  note,  there  was  a  burst 
of  applause  from  the  two  men,  in  which  the  musi- 


PEGGY-ELISE  197 

cians  joined.  Peggy  felt  that  she  must  be 
dreaming. 

"  I  guessed  at  once  that  you  were  a  coloratura," 
Signer  Ferro-Ganacci  said. 

"  Yes  —  it  is  what  my  teacher  told  me,  always 
—  but  I  did  not  care  to  be  a  coloratura  —  it  does 
not  suit  my  temperament,"  the  girl  replied,  with 
an  expression  of  mingled  rapture  and  disap- 
pointment. 

He  smiled. 

"  Mademoiselle,  it  is  just  that  warm,  dra- 
matic temperament  that  coloraturas  usually 
lack." 

Peggy  went  out  to  see  her  uncle,  early  the  next 
morning.  It  was  snowing  heavily,  but  she  was  in 
too  great  a  fever  to  tell  him  her  news  to  be  re- 
strained by  the  weather.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  gone  to  see  him. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Austen's  intention,  when  he 
walked  bitterly  out  of  his  Flushing  home,  suit- 
case and  manuscripts  in  hand,  to  find  —  if  possi- 
ble —  a  place  in  the  country  where  he  could  have 
solitude  for  his  work.  Through  luck,  he  had  run 
across  an  artist  friend,  about  to  join  the  Lafay- 
ette Escadrille,  who  had  offered  him  the  use  of 
his  "  shack  "  at  Montvale,  in  northern  Jersey. 
The  "  shack  "  had  proved  to  be  a  delightful  rustic 
studio,  on  a  birch -covered  hillside  that  sloped 


198  PEGGY-ELISE 

gently  down  to  a  harum-scarum  little  river,  tum- 
bling and  tearing  over  boulders,  or  lying,  quiet, 
in  some  pebble-bottomed  hollow.  The  place,  or 
perhaps  the  change,  or  perhaps  both,  had  proved 
an  inspiration,  and  Mr.  Austen  was  almost  satis- 
fied with  the  quality  of  his  work. 

He  had  just  put  the  coffee  pot  over,  when  Peggy 
knocked.  Without  interest,  he  opened  the  door, 
to  which  no  one  had  come,  so  far,  except  trades- 
people, and  then  stared  in  astonishment. 

"  Peggy !  "  he  marveled,  in  a  caressing  voice, 
"is  it  really  you?"  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
drew  her  into  the  house.  "  Forgive  me  for  keep- 
ing you  standing  here  in  the  cold  —  though  I  "m 
not  sure,  yet,  you  're  not  a  snow-sprite,  and  that 
you  won't  melt  when  I  bring  you  in  where  it  '& 
warm.  Have  you  come  to  stay? "  he  asked 
lightly,  taking  the  small  hand-bag  she  carried  — 
he  achieved  lightness  with  a  great  effort. 

She  laughed  gaily. 

"  No  —  those  are  things  to  eat  —  it  is  a  good 
rule,  when  you  come  to  visit  a  hermit,  to  bring 
your  dinner  with  you !  " 

"  Oh,  Peggy,  Peggy !  —  it  is  so  good  to  see 
you !  "  He  seized  her  hands  and  began  to  draw 
her  to  him,  but  suddenly  released  her.  "  Have 
you  had  breakfast?"  He  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. 

"  No  —  I  planned  to  have  it  with  you  —  I  have 


PEGGY-ELISE  199 

brought  some  beautiful  real  brioches.  Have  you 
an  apron?  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Get  breakfast," 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  I  manage  when  I  'm 
here  alone?  " 

"  I  don't  know !  "  She  smiled  lugubriously. 
"  If  you  are  as  helpless  as  my  father  was  — " 

"  My  dear  Peggy,  all  men  are  helpless  when 
they  have  some  one  to  depend  on — -but  I  assure 
you  we  are  born  housekeepers!  You  sit  there, 
and  I  '11  prove  it  to  you !  "  He  motioned  to  an 
easy-chair  by  the  fireplace,  in  which  a  great 
hickory  log  blazed. 

She  dropped  into  it,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
amusement  as  her  tall  uncle  donned  a  chef's 
regulation  snowy  cap  and  apron  —  his  predeces- 
sor had  bought  them  to  wear  at  a  masked  ball. 

"  But  where  did  you  get  those !  "  she  demanded, 
through  her  laughter. 

He  maintained  an  important  silence. 

She  looked  on,  fascinated,  as  he  placed  a  small 
table  by  the  fire,  and  covered  it  with  an  immacu- 
late cloth,  taken  from  the  chest  of  drawers  that 
had  yielded  up  the  cap  and  apron.  He  set  the 
table  with  an  air  of  solemnity,  put  a  halved 
orange  at  each  place,  then  stood  off  to  inspect 
his  work. 


200  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Sugar,  butter,  cream," —  he  pointed  at  each, 
with  an  enumerating  finger  — "  napkins !  I  for- 
got napkins."  He  fetched  them,  all  with  an  air 
of  absorption  that  was  enchantingly  funny. 

The  breakfast,  of  bacon  and  eggs,  brioches  and 
coffee,  was  delicious. 

"  Well,  after  all,"  Mr.  Austen  said,  in  response 
to  Peggy's  praise,  "  I  'd  be  pretty  stupid  if,  after 
all  the  breakfasts  I  've  eaten,  I  did  n't  know  how 
to  produce  one." 

She  admitted  that  was  true,  and  began  a 
whimsical  inquisition.  How  did  he  manage 
about  this?  How  did  he  manage  about  that? 
Who  took  care  of  his  laundry?  It  was  perfectly 
simple :  His  friend,  the  owner  of  the  studio,  had 
set  the  ball  rolling  and  he,  Austen,  had  simply 
let  it  roll ;  butcher,  baker,  milkman,  laundryman 
appeared,  as  by  magic,  and  brought  things  or 
whisked  them  away.  The  studio  was  a  little 
"  out  of  their  way,"  but  nearly  every  place,  in  the 
country,  was.  But  who  did  his  mending?  The 
laundry.  Did  they  do  it  well?  He  hesitated, 
then  admitted,  laughing,  that  their  darning  left 
something  to  be  desired.  Taken  all  in  all,  he 
was  not  an  object  of  pity. 

"  Mon  oncle,"  Peggy  said,  leaning  back  from 
the  table,  her  chin  resting  on  her  clasped  hands, 
"  what  do  you  think  has  happened  to  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  happened  to  you, 


PEGGY-ELISE  201 

dear,  but  nothing  could  be  too  good."  He  smiled 
tenderly. 

"  Well  —  your  friend,  Mr.  Winthrop,  has  got 
me  into  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  — 
isn't  it  wonderful?  I  am  to  have  small  French 
and  Italian  roles,  this  season,  and  then  —  if  I  do 
well  —  You  see,  I  have  had  no  stage  experience, 
so  they  cannot  tell  —  It  may  be  that  I  shall  be 
a  — what  is  it  Isabelle  calls  it?  — a  <  stick.'" 
The  word  fell  quaintly  from  her  lips. 

Her  uncle  rejected  the  possibility,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  Peggy  said,  with  an  anxious 
air.  "  One  may  have  good  instinct  for  acting,  but 
it  is  a  great  art  to  know  just  how  much  to  exag- 
gerate ;  on  one  side  of  a  very  fine  line  you  are  — 
ineffective  —  and  on  the  other,  ridiculous.  But 
I  shall  work  very  hard."  Her  face  was  alight 
with  enthusiasm. 

She  went  on  to  tell  him  of  her  interview  with 
Signer  Ferro-Ganacci. 

"  And  it  has  all  come  to  me  through  you,"  she 
added,  as  she  finished,  putting  out  an  impulsive 
hand  to  him.  He  bent  over  and  carried  it  to  his 
lips. 

"Dear  girl,  it  has  come  to  you  through  your 
own  gifts  and  loveliness." 

"  But  I  might  have  had  to  wait  a  long  time,  if 
I  had  not  met  Mr.  Winthrop." 

Mr.  Austen's  face  fell  for  a  moment  into  bitter 


202  PEGGY-ELISE 

lines  —  the  acrimonious  scene  with  his  wife, 
touching  this  matter,  had  come  back  to  him,  but 
he  smiled  as  he  saw  Peggy's  troubled  eyes  fixed 
on  him. 

"  I  am  glad,  dear,  that  I  have  been  able  to 
help  you  even  indirectly  —  I  would  do  far  more, 
if  I  could  — " 

They  had  a  wonderful  day,  marred  momen- 
tarily for  Mr.  Austen  by  the  news  that  Venable 
was  coming  to  America  so  soon,  and  for  the  girl 
by  the  pain  her  news  occasioned ;  but  their  gaiety 
was  too  vital  to  be  more  than  fleetingly  dimmed. 
When  Peggy  asked  howr  he  was  coming  along 
with  his  writing,  he  said  if  she  'd  like  to  hear 
what  he  'd  done,  she  could  judge  for  herself.  She 
looked  up  in  astonishment,  from  the  sock  she  was 
redarning,  at  the  thick  sheaf  of  manuscript  in  her 
uncle's  hand. 

"  You  see,  I  can  wrork  very  rapidly  under  the 
right  conditions." 

"  It  is  curious,''  Peggy  said,  studying  his  face, 
"  but  you  are  a  quite  different  person  when  you 
speak  of  your  work  —  it  makes  you  look  always 
happy  and  —  handsome  —  it  is  a  kind  of  — 
idealized  you  —  a — '  She  stopped,  at  loss  for 
words. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean  —  it  -a  because  I  love 
to  write,  and  it  brings  out  the  best  side  of 
me." 


PEGGY-ELISE  203 

"  But  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  —  love/'  she  said 
dreamily. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  a  pregnant  inflection. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  n't  decided  on  a  title  for  this  book  — 
if  you  think  of  anything  — " 

Peggy  nodded. 

In  the  course  of  the  reading,  she  glanced  up 
several  times  appreciatively,  and  caught  her 
uncle?s  waiting  eye.  "  I  thought  you  would  like 
that,"  he  said  once;  or  again,  "  I  knew  that  would 
appeal  to  you."  Peggy  stopped  darning,  and 
leaned  forward  intently.  She  listened,  amazed, 
her  sympathy  with  his  ambitions  becoming  every 
moment  more  concrete,  more  enlightened. 

The  story  dealt  —  not  unnaturally  in  the  cir- 
cumstances —  with  a  case  similar  to  Mr.  Austen's 
own.  He  presented  it  grippingly.  But  by  de- 
grees Peggy  saw  that  though  his  touch  was  sure, 
it  was  prejudiced.  She  realized  how  blindly  he 
had  gone  through  those  frustrating  years,  how 
bitterness  and  defeat  had  veiled  his  vision;  in 
his  eyes,  the  artist  was  a  kind  of  super-being,  un- 
alterable, to  which  the  rest  of  the  universe  should 
adapt  itself.  Inevitably,  therefore,  he  vindicated 
the  artist's  domestic  failure. 

"  Well?  "  he  inquired,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  It  is  splendid !  I  found  myself  being  almost 
converted.  How  is  it  to  end?  " 


204  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  I  have  Egerton  divorce  his  wife,  and  marry 
again.  The  second  time,  he  marries  a  woman  he 
thinks  is  going  to  be  an  ideal  wife  —  an  alto- 
gether different  type  —  but  she  doesn't  under- 
stand him  —  she  's  too  exacting  —  and  in  the  end, 
they  separate.  He  simply  proves  to  his  satisfac- 
tion that  artists  should  n't  marry, —  anyway, 
that  he  should  n't." 

Peggy  was  thoughtful. 

"  Yes  —  but  this  divorcing  and  marrying  again, 
and  then  more  divorce  —  and  then  no  marriage  at 
all  —  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  it  is  a  solution 
of  the  problem;  I  think  it  is  only  an  evasion. 
Figure  to  yourself!  Always  artists  will  go  on 
marrying  —  it  is  their  —  what  do  you  call  it?  — 
their  Achilles'  heel  —  that  they  must  have  a  wife 
and  family.  Nearly  always  there  is  that  need; 
and  since  this  is  so,  it  does  no  good  to  say  they 
should  not  marry.  If  I  could  write,  I  would  try 
to  go  to  the  bottom  of  this  question." 

"  And  how  would  you  solve  it? "  her  uncle 
asked,  a  shade  quizzically. 

"  Well  —  I  would  show  that  a  man  has  no 
right  to  act  as  if  he  were  different  from  other 
men,  to  do  as  he  pleases,  to  be  a  pampered  hus- 
band, because  he  writes  or  paints  or  sings'. 
What  is  it  —  an  artist?  It  is  the  name  for  some 
one  who  has  special  creative  gifts  —  just  as  we 
call  those  who  have  the  same  gifts,  in  a  less  de- 


PEGGY-ELISE  205 

gree,  artisans  — but  they  are  both  men!  A 
stone-carver  would  not  dare  to  have  a  '  tempera- 
ment,' but  a  sculptor  has  all  his  weaknesses  ex- 
cused, because  he  has  more  brain.  Why  should 
he  be  less  a  man  because  he  is  a  little  more  a 
god?  " 

Mr.  Austen  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  What  you  —  seem  to  mean/'  he  said  slowly, 
as  though  the  idea  were  forming  with  each  word, 
"  is  that  an  artist  fails  in  marriage  because  he  is 
a  failure  —  as  a  man —  and  not  because  he  is  an 
artist,  at  all  — " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  think,  in  my  case  — " 

"  I  think," —  she  hesitated,  fearing  to  wound 
him  — "  I  think  perhaps  you  let  the  situation  get 
out  of  your  hands  —  in  the  beginning." 

"  You  mean  I  was  weak ! "  he  stated  bluntly. 
"  That  if  I  wanted  to  write,  I  should  have  done 
so  and  let  the  family  suffer,  until  I  was  on  my 
feet." 

"  Or  else  —  have  realized  that  you  could  not 
have  things  the  way  you  wanted  them,  and 
worked  in  spite  of  unfavorable  conditions,"  she 
suggested  gently.  "  It  is  always  easier  to  change 
oneself  than  to  change  another." 

He  sat  for  a  long  time,  thinking.  Things  his 
wife  had  said,  shot  through  his  mind :  "  You 
could  have  written  a  dozen  books  in  the  last  ten 


206  PEGGY-ELISE 

years."  "  Why  don't  you  write,  instead  of  eter- 
nally adding  up  your  debts,  and  nagging  me  for 
my  extravagance?"  He  wondered  if  his  wife 
had  thought  him  weak.  She  wasn't  analytical, 
but  she  was  instinctive,  and  she  had  probably 
sensed  it.  Again,  he  wasn't  convinced  that  he 
had  been  weak  —  he  had  been,  rather,  the  victim 
of  circumstances.  But,  after  all,  wasn't  that 
the  only  difference  between  a  strong  man  and  a 
weak  one?  —  that  one  overcame  obstacles  and  the 
other  succumbed  to  them. 

"  You  know  how  much  my  wife  did  to  help 
me ! "  he  flung  out  bitterly,  at  this  juncture. 

"  Do  you  know," —  Peggy  leaned  her  tawny 
head  back  against  her  locked  hands,  and  spoke 
meditatively  — "  I  often  thought  Aunt  Isabelle 
bought  things  she  did  n't  want,  and  did  things  you 
disliked,  just  to  —  to  goad  you  into  mastery." 

"  No  —  you  credit  her  with  too  much  subtlety. 
She  was  never  actuated  by  anything  but  selfish- 
ness." 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  subtle  —  I  think 
she  was  prompted  by  some  primitive  instinct." 

A  long  silence  fell  upon  them.  The  short  win- 
ter day  was  closing  in.  Peggy  strained  her  eyes 
over  her  work,  throughout  the  brief  twilight ;  her 
uncle  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  presence. 
Darkness  crept  up  to  the  strip  of  lighted  hearth, 
but  still  he  stared  into  the  fire.  A  log  settled  and 


PEGGY-ELISE  207 

flared  into  flame,  scattering  sparks.  He  did  not 
stir.  He  had  been  vouchsafed  a  glimpse  of  the 
whole  long  scroll  of  his  married  life;  emotion- 
lessly,  he  absorbed  one  significant  detail  after 
another,  as  one  takes  notes  for  leisurely  ponder- 
ing. All  the  convicting  things  he  had  forgotten, 
passed  under  his  mind's  eye.  And  finally,  there 
was  the  telephone  conversation  with  his  wife,  in 
which  she  had  told  him  he  need  not  return.  The 
spell  held  until  the  last  word,  then  he  sat  up,  and 
said: 

"Well  — this  isn't  getting  dinner  — is  it?" 

Later,  as  they  groped  their  way  to  the  station, 
by  lantern-light,  Mr.  Austen  said : 

"  Have  you  —  seen  any  of  the  family?  " 

Peggy  told  him  of  her  aunt's  visit  and  of  her 
kindness. 

"  Um.  Are  they  —  have  they  made  any 
change? " 

"  Yes  —  they  have  moved  to  New  York."  Slje 
hesitated.  "  I  talked  with  Anne,  yesterday,  over 
the  telephone  and  — " 

"  How  is  she?  "  he  interrupted  eagerly.  "  How 
are  they  living?  " 

She  told  him. 

"  My  God !  That  child  ought  not  to  be  shut  up 
in  an  apartment  house !  She 's  not  strong  — 
she  ought  to  live  outdoors !  Does  she  get  plenty 
of  exercise?  "  he  demanded,  in  irritable  anxiety. 


208  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  I  think  she  is  well  —  but  she  misses  you." 
Mr.  Austen  did  not  speak  again  until  the  train 
came.     His  eyes  were  full  of  bitterness;  his  lips 
were  set  in  a  hard  line.     He  said»good-by  auto- 
matically. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DURING  this,  his  first  month  of  absence,  Mr. 
Austen  had  felt  frequent  yearnings  for  his 
youngest  child,  but  he  had  cynically  dismissed 
the  idea  that  it  might  be  mutual  —  her  mother 
would  see  to  it  that  she  did  not  pine.  Children 
—  any  child  —  could  be  amused  into  forgetful- 
ness.  Then  Peggy  had  shocked  him  out  of  the 
half-comforting,  half-bitter  persuasion.  Vivid 
pictures  of  a  sick  Anne,  of  a  lonely  Anne,  of  a 
bewildered  Anne  tormented  him  so  that  he  could 
not  sleep,  could  not  work. 

He  had  a  three-day  struggle  with  his  pride; 
finally,  he  got  a  strong  enough  hold  upon  it  to 
permit  him  to  write  a  note  to  his  wife,  telling 
her  where  he  was,  in  case  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  the  children.  He  hesitated  over  her  ad- 
dress —  she  would  know  Peggy  had  supplied  it  — 
but  then,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
be  in  touch  with  his  niece ;  his  life  was  his  own, 
now.  He  did  not  intend  to  return  to  his  wife; 
her  final  selfishness,  coupled  with  his  blissful 
month  of  work-filled  solitude,  he  felt,  justified 
this  determination.  They  could  continue  to  live 


210  PEGGY-ELISE 

apart,  and  he  would  support  the  family,  or  he 
would  agree  to  a  divorce.  He  meant  to  have 
Anne  with  him,  if  possible. 

When  Mrs.  Austen  spied  the  envelope,  ad- 
dressed in  her  husband's  nervous  hand,  she  said 
contemptuously,  to  herself,  though  her  heart  was 
beating  rapidly : 

"  I  knew  it  would  n't  last !  " 

But  the  triumph  faded  out  of  her  eyes  as  she 
read  his  brief  note,  that  revealed  not  only  his 
whereabouts  and  his  indifference  to  her  personal 
fate,  but  also  that  he  was  in  communication  with 
her  niece.  A  spasm  of  jealousy  drove  the  blood 
burstingly  into  her  head,  and  gave  her  a  sick 
feeling  in  her  throat. 

"  You  have  a  perfectly  reliable  source  of  infor- 
mation —  why  trouble  me?  "  she  wrote,  only  to 
crumple  the  sheet,  and  fling  it  viciously  into  the 
waste-basket.  Pride  urged  her  to  divorce  him 
and  let  him  marry  Peggy,  if  he  wanted  to.  "  The 
fool ! "  she  ejaculated,  between  locked  teeth. 
"  He  does  n't  know  what  he  wants !  He 
wouldn't  be  any  happier  with  her  than  he  was 
with  me ! " 

Of  course,  if  she  freed  him,  every  one  would 
think  she  had  had  no  alternative;  on  the  other 
hand,  if  she  herself  were  free  —  Cynically,  she 
realized  that,  unhindered  by  the  confusing  illu- 
sions of  youth,  she  could  marry  very  well.  She 


PEGGY-ELISE  211 

would  choose  some  one  who  liked  to  see  a  woman 
handsomely  dressed,  to  take  her  around  and  be 
proud  of  her  —  give  her  a  good  time.  But,  some- 
how, the  thought  proved  disappointingly  un- 
stimulating.  It  induced  a  surprisingly  dismal, 
"gone"  feeling.  She  was  glad* when  Flo  Kipp 
breezed  in. 

"  My  dear !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  put  on  your 
things,  this  minute  and  come  with  me !  '  Yvon- 
nette'  is  selling  all  her  winter  models  for  nothing, 
my  dear  — she 's  giving  them  away !  Such  ducky 
hats  you  never  saw!  This  is  one  of  them  — 
is  n't  it  a  beauty?  —  is  n't  it  a  creation?  —  only 
twenty  dollars,  my  dear ! "  She  whirled  round 
gaily  for  Mrs.  Austen  to  inspect  the  small,  plain, 
black  velvet  turban,  with  what  looked  like  a  hen 
feather  stuck  in  the  front  of  it,  for  its  sole  trim- 
ming. "  Just  finding  it,  my  dear,"  she  exulted. 

"My  dear  girl,  don't  talk  hats  to  me!"  Mrs. 
Austen  exclaimed.  "  I  bought  three,  yesterday 
—  they  cost  a  fortune,  but  I  could  n't  resist  them. 
Come  on  into  the  bedroom." 

"  Hello,  my  dear !  "  Mrs.  Kipp  called,  as  they 
passed  the  open  door  of  Anne's  room.  Anne 
looked  up,  leisurely,  from  the  book  on  her  lap. 

"  Hello,"  she  responded  indifferently. 

"  Too  perfect,  my  dear  —  simply  wonderful," 
Mrs.  Kipp  raved,  as  her  friend  adjusted  the  first 
of  her  purchases  on  her  blond  head.  For  fifteen 


212  PEGGY-ELISE 

minutes,    ecstatic   sounds   issued   from    within. 

"  Anne !  "  Mrs.  Austen  called.  "  Come  here 
and  show  Aunt  Flo  your  new  hat." 

Anne's  lip  curled ;  the  "  aunt  "  was  a  courtesy 
relationship  which  she  had  never,  in  her  heart, 
ratified.  She  obeyed  reluctantly. 

There  followed  more  raptures.  Anne  meant 
to  depart,  the  instant  they  subsided,  but  just  then 
Mrs.  Kipp,  with  her  usual  irrelevance,  said : 

'  'And  how  is  your  husband,  my  dear?  " 

"  Oh  —  deep  in  the  throes !  "  Mrs.  Austen 
laughed  indulgently.  "  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
this  morning." 

"Well  —  just  think  of  it,  my  dear!  —  to  go 
away  and  stay  a  whole  month !  It 's  too  excit- 
ing! Fancy  being  st)  clever!  Where  did  you 
say  he  was?  " 

"  Montvale." 

"New  Jersey?" 

Mrs.  Austen  nodded. 

"  Why,  I  have  some  friends  there,  my  dear  — 
the  Dunhams.  I  've  been  there  lots  of  times. 
It 's  on  the  Erie  —  an  enchanting  spot !  Perfect 
place  to  work  in !  Of  course  I  have  n't  an  idea 
in  my  head,  but  you  know  what  I  mean  — I  imag- 
ine it  would  be,  if  I  had!  A  whole  month!  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  " 

"  Well  —  the  eccentricity  of  genius,"  Mrs. 
Austen  said,  in  mock  despair.  Then,  seriously: 


PEGGY-ELISE  213 

"  It  was  really  impossible  for  him  to  work,  home, 
with  the  children  and  everything  —  he  tried  to 
for  years.  You  see  —  the  artistic  temperament  is 
very  peculiar — "  Mrs.  Kipp  nodded  sympa- 
thetically. "  I  don't  understand  it  —  I  don't  pre- 
tend to,"  Mrs.  Austen  continued,  rolling  her  eyes, 
and  making  an  expressive  gesture  with  her 
hands;  "  I  simply  humor  it." 

Mrs.  Kipp  switched  back  to  the  subject  of  hats. 

"  Come  along,  and  buy  just  one !  "  she  urged. 

"  I  can't  —  I  've  been  frightfully  extravagant 
—  you  know  I  paid  eight-hundred-and-fifty  dol- 
lars for  my  coat  —  but  it  was  such  a  bargain ! " 
She  referred  to  the  handsome  seal-trimmed,  mole- 
skin coat  she  had  recently  bought. 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  but  one  can't  go  around 
looking  like  a  savage,"  Mrs.  Kipp  protested. 
"  You  can  have  it  made  over." 

Anne  had  slipped  back  to  her  room,  unnoticed. 
With  shining  eyes,  she  said  to  herself : 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  know  now  where  he  is.  But 
he  should  have  let  me  know,  himself  —  he  knew 
I  would  n't  tell  —  I  'd  have  told  him,"  she 
thought  reproachfully.  For  the  hundredth  time, 
she  tried  to  puzzle  out  why  he  had  gone  away 
at  all. 

Peggy  was  practising,  down  in  Mary  Hallam's 
studio,  one  evening,  when  a  messenger  arrived 


214  PEGGY-ELISE 

with  a  marconigram  for  her.  Mary,  who  had  in- 
troduced herself  to  Peggy  by  way  of  a  bowl  of 
soup  during  the  latter' s  illness,  lifted  an  interro- 
gating eye-brow  as  Peggy  looked  up,  radiant, 
from  the  paper  in  her  hands. 

"  He  will  be  here,  to-morrow !  " 

The  pronoun  was  sufficiently  explicit  for  any 
one  who  had  lived  close  to  her  since  the  arrival 
of  Venable's  cable,  ten  days  earlier,  announcing 
that  he  was  sailing. 

"  But  how  can  I  meet  him?  "  she  asked,  in  sud- 
den consternation.  "  I  have  to  go  to  rehearsal !  " 

"  Could  n't  meet  him,  anyhow  —  you  have  n't 
got  a  permit,  and  there  isn't  time  to  get  one. 
He  '11  hunt  you  up,"  Mary  added  drily. 

Peggy  went  to  bed  early,  but  she  could  not 
sleep  —  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  would  have 
slept,  even  without  the  added  excitement  of  Ven- 
able's expected  arrival.  In  two  days,  she  was  to 
make  her  de"but  in  "  Carmen,"  in  the  modest  role 
of  Frasquita;  on  the  morrow,  there  was  to  be  a 
dress-rehearsal,  with  all  the  principals,  and 
Peggy's  mind  was  so  overstimulated  with  it  all 
that  she  was  unable  to  relax  and  get  the  sleep  she 
needed  so  badly.  For  six  weeks  she  had  driven 
as  hard  as  she  could  drive;  in  addition  to  the 
regular  hours  of  daily  practice,  she  had  learned 
several  minor  roles,  and,  at  Signer  Ferro- 
Ganacci's  suggestion,  was  getting  up  in  Mimi 


PEGGY-ELISE  215 

and  Manon;  she  had  taken  up  the  study  of  Ital- 
ian, not  only  for  pronunciation,  but  that  she 
might  interpret  intelligently  what  she  was  sing- 
ing; then  Winthrop  had  arranged  for  her  to  go 
every  night  to  the  opera,  as  part  of  her  prepara- 
tion, and  with  coaching  and  rehearsals  she  had 
little  time  to  rest.  Also,  it  was  very  expensive  — 
it  would  have  been  impossibly  so,  even  had  her 
new  work  not  obliged  her  to  give  up  posing,  but 
for  Winthrop's  help.  She  accepted  it  gladly, 
and  was  to  repay  him  when  she  could.  He  had 
taken  a  keen  interest  in  every  detail  of  her  prog- 
ress; her  discriminating  and  generous  criticism 
of  the  various  singers  delighted  him,  and  he  was 
much  amused  by  her  reverence  for  Paolo  Breschi, 
whom  she  regarded  as  the  Metropolitan's  finest 
artist ;  naively,  she  hoped  that  some  day  he  might 
deign  to  notice  her.  Winthrop,  knowing  the 
great  baritone's  reputation,  thought  it  highly 
probable  he  would!  Sometimes,  when  the  girl 
was  not  looking,  Winthrop  would  study  her  with 
a  peculiar  intentness,  shot  with  admiration. 

Peggy  was  genuinely  fond  of  him.  She  found 
in  him  that  priceless  thing  —  fine  feeling ;  it  re- 
vealed itself  in  every  contact  with  him.  Though 
he  was  reputed  scarcely  to  know,  himself,  what 
he  was  "  worth,"  his  spending  never  even  ap- 
proached the  limits  of  good  taste.  Peggy  appre- 
ciated this,  the  more  because  she  had  been  sick- 


216  PEGGY-ELISE 

ened  by  the  stupid  extravagance  she  had  so  often 
seen,  and  by  frequent  exhibitions  of  vulgarity. 
Once,  when  they  had  been  lunching  at  the  Plaza, 
two  young  women  at  an  adjacent  table  —  one  of 
them  a  bride —  (it  was  impossible  not  to  over- 
hear their  conversation  —  impossible,  almost,  to 
hear  anything  else)  — had  paid  f 42.50  for  their 
lunch.  The  unmarried  one  giggled  over  the 
check :  "  Is  n't  it  scandalous !  "  Her  companion 
had  waved  a  glittering  hand:  "  What  '11  I  do 
with  it?  I've  got  to  spend  it  somehow!" 
Peggy  had  wondered  how  these  people,  who  could 
not  fail  to  know  of  all  Europe's  plight,  could  be 
so  at  a  loss  to  spend  their  wealth  that  they  had 
to  throw  away  almost  fifty  dollars  on  a  meal! 
She  had  thought,  wrathfully,  that  it  would  be 
just  the  same,  with  people  like  that,  if  America, 
itself,  were  in  the  war. 

She  tossed  and  turned  —  sleep  would  not  come. 
Woven  in  with  these  memories  of  the  recent  past 
were  disturbing  thoughts  of  the  near  future. 
She  wondered  if  she  would  have  strength  to  per- 
sist in  her  determination  not  to  marry  Venable, 
if  he  should  urge  her.  Her  mind  treacherously 
pictured  him  bending  over  her,  there  in  the  dark, 
and  slipping  his  arms  under  her,  his  pleading 
voice  in  her  ears.  It  was  torture.  But  as  she 
grew  calmer,  she  visualized  the  worse  torture  of 
a  marriage  that  would  satisfy  one's  desires,  but 


PEGGY-ELISE  217 

not  one's  ideals;  she  saw  too  clearly,  to  be  able 
to  put  it  aside,  that  for  her,  physical  harmony 
would  not  endure  long  against  a  constant  differ- 
ence of  opinion. 

In  the  morning,  while  she  was  dressing,  she  de- 
cided to  stop  and  ask  Mary  to  watch  for  Venable, 
and  tell  him  where  he  could  find  her. 

She  started  downstairs,  her  umbrella  under 
her  arm,  for  it  was  snowing,  just  as  a  man  started 
up.  In  some  remote  corner  of  her  subconscious- 
ness  she  connected  him  with  the  doorbell  that  had 
recently  rung;  and,  in  the  same  vague  way,  she 
was  aware  that,  as  they  approached  each  other, 
he  stopped  —  presumably  to  let  her  pass.  She 
bowed,  without  glancing  up,  then  wavered,  caught 
by  some  arresting  quality  in  him.  She  looked  up, 
involuntarily.  It  was  Venable.  As  their  eyes 
met,  he  reached  out  and  drew  her  to  him,  with 
one  of  his  rare  smiles. 

"  I  wondered  if  you  could  pass  me  and  not 
know  it,"  he  breathed. 

The  irresistible  magnetism  that  she  had  strug- 
gled against,  in  the  old  days,  mastered  her  at  his 
touch;  she  uttered  a  little  moan  as  his  lips 
crushed  hers  in  a  rapture  of  anticipation.  For 
a  long  moment,  they  were  lost  in  each  other. 

They  started  apart,  as  a  doorknob  turned. 
Venable  picked  up  his  hat,  and  Peggy  straight- 
ened hers,  and  collected  the  umbrella  she  had  un- 


218  PEGGY-ELISE 

consciously  leaned  against  the  wall.  She  found 
herself  saying : 

"What  time  did  you  get  in?  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  see  you  so  soon !  " 

And  he  replied: 

"  Eight  o'clock.  I  left  my  things  at  the  hotel 
and  came  right  over  here.  You  see,  Peggy- 
Elise,"  he  smiled  tenderly,  "  I  came  to  America  to 
see  you,  and  naturally  I  have  n't  lost  any  time 
in  accomplishing  it." 

But  their  minds  were  not  on  what  they  were 
saying.  Peggy  was  thinking,  cynically,  how  easy 
it  had  been  to  make  certain  decisions  —  away 
from  him  —  and  how  terribly  difficult  it  was  go- 
ing to  be  to  carry  them  out  against  the  overpower- 
ing argument  of  sheer  physical  appeal.  And 
Venable,  stirred  by  this  first  taste  of  an  ex- 
quisitely responsive  Peggy,  this  Peggy,  of  whose 
existence  he  had  never  been  quite  sure,  was  won- 
dering, over  hammering  pulses,  how  long  she 
would  make  him  wait  before  she  would  yield, 
wholly.  Would  she,  out  of  some  unsuspected 
stratum  of  formality,  wish  them  to  be  fiances? 
The  idea  of  being  "  engaged  "  to  Peggy  struck  him 
humorously  —  he  opined  the  engagement  wrould 
be  of  short  duration. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked,  as  they  de- 
scended the  front  steps. 

"  To  rehearsal." 


PEGGY-ELISE  219 

"  I  '11  take  you  —  we  can  get  a  taxi  here,  some- 
where." 

On  the  way  to  the  corner,  he  observed  her. 
She  had  not  changed  in  appearance  —  she  was 
even  still  wearing  black,  though  she  had  lightened 
it  by  the  addition  of  a  soft-brimmed  white  felt 
hat,  and  she  looked  beautiful  and  distinguished, 
as  always, —  but  there  was  a  subtle  difference  — 
a  touch  more  of  confidence  in  her  bearing  —  she 
was  somehow  more  individualized.  Perhaps 
America  had  developed  the  American  side  of  her, 
or  —  perhaps  she  had  met  some  one.  .  .  .  What- 
ever might  be  the  reason,  he  was  fascinated  with 
this  newly  emerged  Peggy-Elise. 

In  the  taxicab,  whose  snow-blurred  windows 
furnished  privacy,  he  caught  her  to  him  again. 
She  tried  to  free  herself,  but  he  met  her  efforts 
with  a  tender,  unheeding  laugh  close  to  her  lips. 
When  at  last  he  released  her,  she  was  white  and 
weak,  but  determined. 

"  Gilbert, —  you  must  not  do  that,  again." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  demanded  humoringly. 

"  Did  you  not  receive  my  letter?  I  ex- 
plained — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  interrupted.  "  You  were 
sure  I  did  n't  love  you  —  I  think,  to  quote  you 
exactly,  that  I  '  did  n't  know  what  love  was,' — 
and  I  believe  you  said,  too,  that  you  weren't 
going  to  marry  me  because  it  would  interfere  as 


220  PEGGY-ELISE 

much  with  your  career,  as  it  would  with  mine." 
His  manner  conveyed  that  he  had  taken  her  letter 
lightly. 

His  assurance  unsteadied  her ;  the  reasons  that 
had  shaped  her  decision  somehow  lost  their  po- 
tency, but  she  clung  desperately  to  the  decision 
itself. 

"  I  have  not  changed  my  mind."  She  forced 
herself  to  meet  his  amused  eyes. 

"  You  will." 

"  No  —  you  are  wrong  —  my  work  means 
everything  to  me.'' 

"  Work  never  means  as  much  to  any  woman  as 
love/'  he  contradicted. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  something  of  the  old, 
calm  strength  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"  That  is  true  —  but  I  «think  you  and  I  do  not 
mean  the  same  thing  by  love." 

"  I  have  come  to  America  —  to  marry  you  — 
Peggy-Eiise,"  he  argued,  with  a  winning  smile. 

"  That  might  only  prove  that  you  —  wanted 
me  very  much." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  call  that?  "  There  was 
amusement  in  his  voice, 

"  Did  you  love  Fania?  " 

Venable  suddenly  understood ;  she  was  jealous, 
of  course !  Any  woman  would  be,  in  the  circum- 
stances. It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Peggy 
had  referred  to  Fania  only  to  support  an  argu 


PEGGY-ELISE  221 

merit;  her  curious  ability  to  view  any  question 
impersonally  had  always  confounded  him. 

"  I  think," —  he  spoke  in  a  tone  of  finality  — 
"  that  the  fact  that  I  'm  here  answers  every  ob- 
jection." After  a  pause,  he  said : 

"  Tell  me  how  you  got  into  the  Metropolitan  — 
I  believe  you  said  a  friend  of  your  uncle's  was 
instrumental  in  arranging  it?  " 

He  listened  without  comment,  as  Peggy  talked 
enthusiastically  of  Giles  Winthrop  and  of  her 
work. 

"  How  long  do  you  suppose  this  rehearsal  will 
last?  "  he  asked,  as  the  taxicab  stopped  at  the 
stage  entrance. 

"  It 's  impossible  to  tell  —  there  is  no  perform- 
ance to-night  —  we  may  rehearse  very  late." 

They  decided,  in  view  of  the  general  uncer- 
tainty, not  to  try  to  see  each  other  again  that 
day,  but  to  have  luncheon  together,  on  the 
morrow. 

"  I, think  I  '11  call  up  your  friend,  Miss  Hallam, 
around  dinner-time,  and  see  if  you  're  back." 

But  at  seven  o'clock  the  rehearsal  was  still  in 
full  swing.  Signor  Ferro-Ganacci  put  it  up  to 
the  principals  —  they  could  stop,  if  they  liked, 
and  finish  on  the  next  day ;  but  there  was  a  unani- 
mous desire  to  have  it  over  with,  then,  and  rest 
on  the  day  of  the  performance,  itself. 

Some  one  went  to  Peggy,  to  know  if  she  wished 


222  PEGGY-ELISE 

to  send  out  for  food,  but  she  was  so  exhausted 
from  the  strain  of  meeting  Venable,  and  of  sing- 
ing, for  the  first  time,  with  mature  artists,  that 
she  shook  her  head  —  the  thought  of  food  repelled 
her.  Nevertheless,  when  a  waiter  inquired,  a  few 
minutes  afterward,  if  she  were  Mademoiselle  Las- 
celles,  and  began  to  open  an  oblong  white  enam- 
eled box,  in  which  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  dainty 
food  and  service,  she  felt  suddenly  hungry.  A 
lump  rose  in  her  throat  as  she  read  the  under- 
standing note  from  Winthrop,  that  accompanied 
it:  He  hoped  she  would  try  to  eat  something, 
and  she  was  not  to  be  nervous  —  he  had  some 
splendid  things  to  tell  her. 

He  had  chosen  the  repast  with  his  usual  care 
—  Peggy  grew  ravenous  as  she  looked  at  the  de- 
licious fruit  salad,  the  cold  breast  of  chicken,  the 
slices  of  thin  bread  and  butter  and  the  bottle  of 
French  claret ;  but  she  ate  sparingly.  When  she 
had  finished,  she  leaned  back,  her  hands  dropped 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  closed,  and  forced  herself  to 
relax.  Footsteps  passed  and  repassed.  Pres- 
ently, she  was  aware  that  some  one  had  stopped 
in  front  of  her.  She  glanced  up,  carelessly,  and 
found  Signer  Paolo  Breschi  appraising  her  with 
Italian  thoroughness. 

"  Dio!  "  he  ejaculated,  under  his  breath.  Then 
he  smiled  brilliantly.  "  Pardon  me,  mademoi- 
selle —  I  have  forget  to  introduce  myself  — " 


PEGGY-ELISE  223 

"  It  is  not  necessary  —  I  know  who  you  are," 
Peggy  said,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  none  of  the 
excitement  she  felt  at  this  encounter.  "  I  have 
been  learning  from  you  for  a  month,  from  the 
front." 

"So?"  His  long,  mobile  face  was  radiant 
with  pleasure.  "  Then  you  will  not  be  offended 
if  I  criticize?  " 

"  I  would  feel  so  honored,  signer !  " 

"Well  — it  is  this."  He  explained  that  he 
thought  she  could  improve  her  pantomime,  at  a 
certain  point,  and  showed  her  what  he  meant. 
She  rose  eagerly,  and  did  it  after  him.  When  she 
looked  up  for  correction,  his  expression  discon- 
certed her  —  it  combined  appreciation  of  her 
work,  with  undisguised  personal  approval.  He 
was  about  to  speak,  when  they  called  the  third 
act,  and  Peggy  had  to  hurry  away;  she  felt  his 
eyes  upon  her  until  she  disappeared  in  the  glit- 
tering, gaudy  crowd. 

Rehearsal  was  over  at  half -past  nine.  When 
Peggy  came  downstairs,  Winthrop  was  waiting  to 
take  her  home.  She  settled  back  gratefully,  in  a 
corner  of  his  big  car,  for  the  morning's  snow- 
storm had  worked  itself  into  a  blizzard,  and  trans- 
portation was  demoralized.  Her  companion  was 
jubilant.  The  general  opinion  of  his  prot£ge"e 
was  that  she  had  a  "  future." 

"  Your  voice  could  be  heard  over  all  the  others, 


224  PEGGY-ELISE 

in  the  ensemble  work  —  it  has  a  remarkable  qual- 
ity," he  said.  "  Ferro-Ganacci  is  going  to  put 
you  on  the  list  of  '  donbleurs  •' —  which  means,  of 
course,  that  you  may  be  called  on  at  any  time  to 
sing  an  important  role."  But  Peggy  was  too 
worn  out  by  a  succession  of  intense  emotions  to  be 
elated  by  her  success.  Winthrop  understood  and 
was  silent  during  the  remainder  of  the  ride. 

As  they  picked  their  way  through  the  drifted 
snow,  to  her  door,  the  girl  said  simply: 

"  There  is  nobody  like  you." 

He  made  no  reply.  When  they  said  good 
night,  he  avoided  her  eyes,  softly  luminous  with 
gratitude. 

"  Try  to  sleep,"  he  advised,  releasing  her  hand. 

She  found  Venable  waiting  for  her,  in  Mary 
Hallam's  studio  —  he  had  dropped  in,  around 
nine,  to  see  if  she  had  returned,  and  Mary  had 
asked  him  to  come  in  and  sit  down. 

"  Giles  Winthrop  bring  you  home?  "  Mary  in- 
quired. 

"  Yes  —  he  is  very  kind." 

"Humph!"  she  laughed;  "he  won't  get  any 
medals  for  that  sort  of  philanthropy." 

"  You  are  wrong  —  it  is  just  kindness." 

"  I  would  have  gone  for  you,  myself,"  Venable 
explained,  a  trifle  stiffly,  "  but  I  was  afraid  of 
missing  you." 

Peggy  went  to  her  room  early.     Venable  car- 


PEGGY-ELISE  225 

ried  up  her  cloak  and  umbrella  for  a  pretext  to 
be  alone  with  her.  When  he  had  lighted  the  gas, 
he  said  : 

"Peggy  —  this  man,  Winthrop  —  is  he  any- 
thing to  you?  " 

"  He  is  a  dear  friend." 

"  Does  he  love  you?  " 

"  He  has  not  said  so." 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  to-morrow?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Dear,"  he  protested,  "  this  is  nonsense !  You 
want  me  as  much  as  I  want  you,  and  you  know 
it!  Do  you  really  think  I  don't  know  how  to 
love? "  He  put  his  hand  persuasively  on  her 
shoulder.  She  removed  it. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  about  that  —  now ;  I  am 
remembering  the  things  you  used  to  say  against 
marriage —  Have  you  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  well  for  an  artist  to  marry?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  No  —  but  we  are  intelligent  enough  to  elimi- 
nate the  —  well  —  the  disagreeable  features  of 
marriage  —  and  keep  its  attractive  ones.  You 
are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  known  with  whom 
it  would  be  possible." 

" '  The  disagreeable  features ' —  you  mean  — ?  " 

"  Children  —  and  things ;  they  would  interfere 
with  your  work  as  much  as  they  would  with 


226  PEGGY-ELISE 

mine.  I  think  it  would  be  as  nearly  perfect  as  a 
marriage  could  be  —  would  n't  it?  " 

Peggy  looked  at  him,  queerly. 

"  For  you  —  perhaps ;  me  —  I  would  not  call  it 
'  marriage '  at  all  —  it  would  be  only  a  ceremony 
that  would  permit  you  to  have  a  mistress  com- 
fortably and  respectably." 

He  was  silent. 

For  a  long  time  her  eyes  probed  his,  but  what 
she  sought  apparently  lay  beyond  reach  of  her 
hungry  vision,  for  she  could  not  altogether  sub- 
due the  hopelessness  in  her  voice,  when  she  spoke. 

"  We  will  talk  about  it,  another  time  —  I  am 
too  tired,  now." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  will  do  any  good  to  talk  — 
you  '11  change  your  mind  about  a  lot  of  things, 
when  you  've  tried  it,"  he  urged,  taking  her  in  his 
arms. 

She  did  not  protest  —  neither  did  she  respond. 
He  tried  to  rouse  her,  but  she  remained  obdur- 
ately passive. 

He  left  her,  with  a  growing  uneasiness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PEGGY  had  told  Venable  the  truth  —  she  was 
indeed  too  tired  to  talk  —  so  tired  that,  five 
minutes  after  she  had  slipped  into  bed,  she  was 
asleep. 

She  woke  feeling  wonderfully  refreshed  in 
body  and  mind;  the  problem  she  had  resolutely 
refused  to  consider,  after  her  head  touched  the 
pillow,  had  somehow  solved  itself  while  she  slept, 
or,  rather,  dissolved  itself,  for  it  was  gone.  She 
would  simply  not  see  Venable  alone,  again,  until 
her  objections  to  marrying  him  had  crystallized 
into  reasons ;  just  now,  they  were  too  instinctive, 
she  knew,  to  withstand  argument. 

She  called  him  up  and  told  him  she  would  be 
unable  to  take  luncheon  with  him  —  she  was  too 
busy.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Well  —  I  suppose  I  '11  see  you  after  the  per- 
formance, to-night,  to  congratulate  you  —  won't 
I?" 

"  Or  to  sympathize  with  me !  " 

"  I  think  you  won't  need  any  one's  .sympathy." 

"  That  is  nice  of  you.  You  will  meet  my  uncle 
and  Mr.  Winthrop  —  they  will  both  be  there." 

227 


228  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Yes?  " 

Only  a  few,  in  the  brilliant  audience  that  as- 
sembled that  night  to  see,  rather  than  to  hear, 
Charlotte  Galland  as  Carmen,  knew  that  Peggy 
was  making  her  debut;  but  many  of  them  spoke 
of  the  beautiful  new  voice  that  issued  from  the 
throat  of  an  equally  beautiful  young  woman,  and 
took  a  second  look  at  their  programs.  It  was 
behind  the  scenes,  and  after  the  performance,  that 
she  had  her  triumph.  Signor  Ferro-Ganacci 
brought  back  two  of  the  directors  to  meet  her; 
Charlotte  Galland  sent  her  some  flowers  and  a 
charming  note;  Paolo  Breschi  was  either  with 
her  every  minute,  in  the  wings,  or  watching  her 
amorously  from  them  —  he  was  beside  himself 
with  desire  for  her,  he  told  her,  with  Latin 
frankness. 

And  when  she  came  out  of  the  theater,  with 
Giles  Winthrop  at  her  side,  she  found  the  people 
who,  one  way  or  another,  mattered  most  to  her, 
awaiting  her  —  Venable  and  Mary  Hallam  in  one 
group,  and  her  uncle  and  Anne  Austen  in  the 
other.  Anne  had  demanded  to  be  taken  to  the 
opera,  and  had  finally  been  sent  in  charge  of  her 
governess  —  a  melancholy,  shrivelled  little 
Frenchwoman  —  whom  she  tolerated;  she  stood 
beside  the  child,  looking  very  dismal. 

Anne  had  not  known  that  her  father  was  to  be 
there.  When  she  spied  him  she  broke  loose  from 


PEGGY-ELISE  229 

Mademoiselle  Seguin,  and  ran  passionately  to 
him.  She  had  kissed  him  and  clung  to  him,  ador- 
ingly. Austen  had  been  so  moved,  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  Daddy !  "  she  had  cried,  "  when  are  you 
coming  home?  —  To-night?  " 

He  had  smiled,  with  infinite  tenderness,  into 
her  ardent  little  face : 

"  When  I  've  finished  my  work,  dear  —  it  won't 
be  very  long." 

While  they  were  waiting  for  Peggy,  Mr.  Austen 
and  Venable  identified  each  other.  Jealousy 
flamed  up  in  the  latter  as  he  observed  Austen's 
good  looks  and  very  evident  attractiveness  —  he 
wondered  if  Peggy  were  in  love  with  her  uncle,  if 
that  were  why  she  had  left  her  aunt's  home.  She 
appeared,  just  then,  with  Winthrop,  and  diverted 
his  speculations  into  a  new  channel.  His  first 
feeling,  at  sight  of  her  escort,  was  one  of  intense 
relief;  he  could  not  imagine  Peggy  caring  for 
that  plainish,  middle-aged  man,  whose  plainness 
was  further  aggravated  by  eyeglasses;  but  when 
a  smile  lighted  his  face,  and  he  spoke  in  an  at- 
tractive voice,  that  was  full  of  quiet  force,  Ven- 
able realized  that  he  would  have  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

Introductions  and  congratulations  over,  Win- 
throp suggested  that  they  all  go  and  have  a  little 
supper,  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  Peggy  dis- 


230  PEGGY-ELISE 

covered    Mademoiselle    Seguin    slipping    away. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  she  said,  in  French,  "  it  would 
give  me  the  greatest  happiness  to  have  one  of  my 
own  countrywomen  with  me,  to-night  —  will  you 
not  stay?  " 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you,  Mademoiselle !  —  but  I 
cannot  —  to-night.  I  have  a  very  bad  headache." 

When  Peggy  could  not  alter  her  decision,  she 
said: 

"  Then  we  will  take  you  home,  first." 

The  girl  protested,  but  Peggy  had  her  way. 
At  the  door,  as  she  said  good  night,  she  impul- 
sively removed  all  but  one  of  the  beautiful  scar- 
let buds  she  was  wearing,  and  pinned  them  on 
the  lapel  of  Mademoiselle  Seguin's  worn  black 
coat.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  at  sight  of  the 
woman's  pleasure,  and  she  wished  that  she  might, 
somehow,  bring  the  miracle  of  success  into  the 
drab  lives  of  the  many  little  alien  French  govern- 
esses who  had  lost  their  youth  —  or  were  losing 
it  —  day  after  monotonous  day. 

"  I  got  red  roses  for  you,  Peggy,"  Anne  said, 
unconsciously  enlightening  three  men  who  had 
been  intensely  curious  about  the  flowers  Peggy 
wore,  "  because  you  always  seem  to  me  like  a  red 
rose  —  in  mourning.  And  you  smell  like  a 
flower,  too  —  with  the  dew  on  it."  She  looked 
up,  worshippingly,  into  her  cousin's  face :  "  I  'm 
so  glad  I  can  stay  all  night  with  you !  " 


PEGGY-ELISE  231 

Peggy  had  a  little  moment  of  self -conscious- 
ness, when  Winthrop  helped  her  off  with  her 
wrap.  Instead  of  her  usual  black,  the  opening 
cloak  revealed  her  in  a  softly  gleaming  white 
evening  frock;  her  exquisite  throat  and  arms 
needed  no  ornaments,  and  she  wore  none.  No 
one  there,  except  Venable,  had  ever  seen  her  so 
beautiful  —  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  her 
beauty ;  his  mind  had  gone  back  to  that  other  time 
he  had  seen  her  in  white,  the  night  they  had 
stopped  at  the  Maison  Chevalier,  after  he  had 
come  to  her  aid  —  a  forlorn,  tragic  figure,  hud- 
dled on  a  pile  of  crushed  stone,  beside  the  road 
from  Verdun.  He  recalled  his  surprise  at  her 
loveliness,  wrhen  she  joined  him,  in  a  simple  white 
dress  of  Madame's  daughter,  which  Madame  had 
loaned  her  to  replace  her  dripping  garments. 
How  little  any  one  could  have  foreseen  the  girl's 
destiny  that  night!  She  had  been  then,  and  al- 
ways, so  unassuming,  so  unaffected  —  she  had 
had  none  of  the  flamboyant  qualities,  the  con- 
spicuous eccentricities  that  are  supposed  to  dis- 
tinguish the  personality  of  genius.  Until  to- 
night, he  would  have  imagined  her  wholly  un- 
suited  to  a  part  like  that  of  Frasquita,  for  in- 
stance, yet  she  had  simply  disappeared  in  it,  re- 
placing her  own  quiet,  poised  self  with  the  primi- 
tive, uncurbed,  crudely  colorful  gipsy  girl,  in  a 
way  that  had  taken  his  breath.  In  this  new  re- 


232  PEGGY-ELISE 

spect  for  her,  he  realized  that  it  was  going  to  be 
very  difficult,  now,  to  win  her.  ...  He  wondered 
how  he  had  failed  to  gage  her  worth  more  ac- 
curately, in  the  Phryne  days.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  possibly  he  had  undervalued  all  women  — 
yet  those  he  had  known  had  justified  his  valua- 
tion. 

"  Oh,  Peggy !  "  Anne  exclaimed,  "  you  look 
beautiful !  I  've  never  seen  you  in  anything  but 
black  —  except  your  nightdress,"  she  amended. 

Everybody  laughed,  as  Peggy  blushed  and  put 
her  hand  over  Anne's  mouth. 

"  Cherie,  I  would  not  have  believed  you  were  an 
enfant  terrible,"  she  laughed,  hugging  her. 

It  was  a  gay  supper.  For  Peggy,  it  would  have 
been  perfect  had  her  father  been  there  to  share 
the  happiness  of  her  first  success;  but  she  was 
too  unselfish,  too  deeply  grateful,  to  let  this  ache 
shadow  her  joy.  Besides,  she  would  have  been 
more  than  human  had  she  not  caught  the  in- 
fectious gaiety  of  her  companions,  and  been  a 
little  carried  away  by  their  toasts  and  prophecies. 
And  to  have  Venable  witness  her  triumph,  added 
a  last  intoxicating  touch.  She  felt  a  delicious 
awakening  sense  of  power,  not  only  over  men,  but 
over  circumstances ;  her  new  earning  capacity  be- 
wildered her  —  a  thousand  francs  —  she  always 
turned  dollars  into  francs  —  for  a  few  hours' 
work!  It  was  a  fabulous  sum!  She  would  be 


PEGGY-ELISE  233 

able,  now,  to  take  a  little  apartment,  as  Win- 
throp  had  suggested  that  evening,  where  she 
could  have  privacy  for  her  work,  and  a  place  to 
receive  people.  Also,  she  would  be  able,  she 
realized,  with  a  swelling  heart,  to  contribute 
much  more  to  the  various  funds  for  the  relief  of 
her  countrymen  —  and  save,  besides. 

Venable,  studying  her  radiant  face,  wondered 
if  Winthrop  had  by  any  chance  proposed  to  her, 
that  evening  —  there  was  no  tinge  of  possessive- 
ness  in  their  manner,  yet  he  was  at  a  loss  to  ac- 
count for  a  certain  note  of  exultation  in  Peggy, 
that  he  felt,  instinctively,  was  not  due  to  her 
success;  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  himself, 
his  unconsciously  more  deferential  attitude,  a 
new  hint  of  diffidence  in  him,  had  brought  it 
there.  He  thought  it  was  the  touch  of  excite- 
ment he  had  observed  in  newly  engaged  women. 
He  realized,  enviously,  that  Winthrop  was  the 
type  of  man  who,  not  even  in  extremest  circum- 
stances, would  offer  the  woman  he  loved  a  sub- 
stitute for  marriage  —  he  was  the  sort  that  would 
remain  faithful  to  an  insane  wife.  To  Venable, 
it  was  sheer  foolishness  —  yet  a  kind  of  fine  fool- 
ishness. He  admitted  that  he,  himself,  was  built 
on  quite  other  lines.  Or  was  it  a  matter  of  early 
training?  His  father's  materialistic  attitude 
toward  women  had  unquestionably  influenced 
him ;  yet  he  remembered  that,  in  the  ardor  of  his 


234  PEGGY-ELISE 

first  love  affair,  he  had,  despite  the  paternal  ad- 
vice, intended  to  marry  the  girl,  but  she  had  be- 
longed to  that  branch  of  the  frail  sisterhood  that 
is  more  seducing  than  seduced.  .  .  .  His  subse- 
quent dealings  with  women  were  of  an  unat- 
tractive nature.  He  wondered,  while  missing  no 
word  of  Peggy's  conversation,  what  would  have 
happened  had  Ida  —  that  was  her  name  —  been 
a  proper  young  person.  He  decided,  with  a 
soothing  sense  of  justification,  that  he  would  now 
have  been  an  unsuccessful  business  man  —  since 
he  had  no  financial  aptitude  —  with  a  large  and 
probably  complaining  family  —  he  assumed  that 
families  complained  more  or  less,  under  the 
provocation  of  poverty.  And  here  was  Peggy  ap- 
parently wanting  one;  or,  at  least,  as  far  as  he 
could  fathom  it,  resenting  the  proposed  omission 
of  it.  He  wished  he  had  said  nothing  about  chil- 
dren, yet  it  was  better  to  talk  it  out  honestly, 
now,  than  to  have  the  necessarily  far  more  sordid 
and  estranging  discussions  of  it,  afterward.  He 
reflected  that  Winthrop  would  be  delighted  with 
a  family. 

When  they  left  the  restaurant,  it  was  snowing 
hard.  Venable  said  it  was  the  kind  of  weather 
he  loved  to  be  out  in,  and  would  walk  home. 
Disappointedly,  Peggy  watched  his  tall  figure 
disappear  down  the  avenue,  in  the  wind-whirled 


PEGGY-ELISE  235 

snow  that  the  lights  transformed  into  a  curtain  of 
flashing  crystals. 

Her  lately  blossomed  sense  of  power  proved  to 
be  one  of  those  fragile,  heavy-scented  blooms, 
that  are  as  perishable  as  they  are  intoxicating ;  it 
withered  under  Venable's  small  show  of  indif- 
ference. And  it  did  not  revive  under  Winthrop's 
significant  attentiveness  —  the  male  world,  out- 
side of  Venable,  might  go  cassocked  and  cowled, 
for  all  it  mattered  to  Peggy.  Yet  she  wished,  for 
a  moment,  that  she  could  care  for  Winthrop  — 
there  was  such  a  perfect  understanding  between 
them,  such  similarity  of  tastes  and  ideals,  and  he 
was  so  tender,  so  unselfish.  Those  were  the 
things,  according  to  her  own  convictions,  that 
ought  to  prompt  love  —  but  they  didn't  —  at 
least,  not  the  love  that  finds  satisfaction  only  in 
marriage;  thaf  sort  of  love  seemed  to  depend 
upon  a  certain  delicious  troubling  of  the  nerves. 
.  .  .  She  knew  that  if  Venable  were  suddenly 
robbed  of  his  power  to  stir  her,  she  would  not 
cling  to  his  unglamoured  faults,  hoping  for  a 
miracle  to  change  him. 

Up  in  her  little  Patchin  Place  room,  she  un- 
dressed Anne,  and  lingeringly  tucked  her  into 
bed.  Then  she  got  into  the  orange-lined,  gray 
kimono,  with  its  flight  of  storks,  that  Venable  had 
brought  her,  turned  out  the  gas,  and,  by  the  light 


236  PEGGY-ELISE 

of  a  candle,  fixed  in  a  violently  futuristic  candle- 
stick a  young  Russian  artist  in  the  house  had 
made,  opened  her  small  leather  trunk  and  took 
out  the  box  that  held  her  father's  Croix  de 
Guerre.  She  intended  to  put  the  scarlet  rosebud 
with  it,  in  memory  of  her  first  success,  that  meant 
so  much  to  her  and  would  have  meant  so  much, 
she  thought,  to  her  father.  But  as  she  looked  at 
them,  lying  side  by  side  —  the  pretty  festive 
flower,  and  that  stern  symbol  of  supreme  sacri- 
fice—  the  hot  shamed  color  flooded  her  face; 
by  what  right  had  she  put  it  there? 

In  a  blinding,  shrivelling  vision,  she  saw  her- 
self engrossed  in  her  own  affairs,  carried  away 
by  her  easily  won  success  —  a  success  for  which 
she  had  not  had  to  strike  a  blow !  —  concerned  for 
her  own  happiness,  that  affected,  at  best,  the 
happiness  of  only  one  other  —  when  at  that  very 
moment  the  ~brancardiers  were  carrying  their 
martyred  thousands  from  the  battlefields  of  Eu- 
rope! The  color  flickered  out  of  her  cheeks, 
leaving  her  white  and  scornful.  What  sacrifice 
ennobled  the  rose  she  would  have  placed  beside 
her  father's  cross?  She  had  given  time  and 
strength  to  the  Red  Cross,  had  gone  without  com- 
forts, often,  in  order  to  care  in  small  ways  for 
some  poilus  who  had  been  kind  to  her  at  St. 
Menehould,  and  she  meant,  now,  to  do  more  — 
but  "  more  *'  was  not  enough !  She  thought  how 


PEGGY-ELISE  237 

her  father  would  have  scorned  merely  to  do  what 
could  have  been  reasonably  expected  of  him !  He 
had  flung  his  life  away  with  glorious  careless- 
ness. She  could  see  him  drop  suddenly  across 
his  machine  gun,  his  gray  dead  piled  up  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  trench,  a  defiant  smile  on  his 
lips.  He  had  lived  up  to,  and  died  up  to,  his 
highest  ideal ;  and  there,  in  the  quiet  of  her  little 
candle-lit  room,  he  seemed  to  tell  her  that  it  had 
brought  him  happiness,  and  to  show  her  what 
she  must  do. 

She  bowed  her  head  and  listened.  He  re- 
minded her  that  he  had  left  her  his  Croix  de 
Guerre  as  a  symbol  of  the  unfinished  duty  for 
which  he  had  died,  and  which  he  had  bequeathed 
to  her;  to  perform  that  faithfully  was  the  only 
success  that  mattered,  that  would  make  her  the 
woman  she  was  meant  to  be ;  "  duty  "  invariably 
compelled  one  to  rise  above  every-day  littleness 
and  selfishness,  and  to  live  finely  —  to  live  better 
than  one  seemed  able  to  live,  without  the  urge  of 
it.  One  could  not  realize  his  ideal  —  that  curi- 
ous something  that  was  like  a  luminous,  strong 
self,  in  one,  struggling  eternally  for  realization  — 
unless  one  felt  in  his  heart  that  sense  of  respon- 
sibility to  some  one,  something.  Without  it,  her 
father's  spirit  seemed  to  argue,  one  was  cut  off 
from  love  —  not  the  changeling  passions  that 
parade  in  its  guise,  but  the  unseeking  tenderness 


238  PEGGY-ELISE 

that  sees  in  every  man  a  brother,  that  forgets  its 
private  griefs  in  the  grief  of  the  world  —  love, 
that  was  turning  France  and  Belgium  into  a 
shambles  to-day,  that  to-morrow  the  whole  world 
might  be  made  a  happier,  better  place  for  un- 
known and  unborn  men  to  live  in  —  love,  the 
light  of  the  world!  When  one  turned  his  face 
from  it,  one  saw  only  the  blighting  black  wedge 
of  his  own  shadow'.  .  .  . 

For  perhaps  an  hour  Peggy  sat  there  on  the 
floor,  beside  her  trunk,  her  hands  dropped  in  her 
lap,  so  still  that  she  appeared  scarcely  to  breathe. 
When  she  rose,  at  last,  her  face  was  transfigured. 
She  looked  slowly  around  the  humble  little  room ; 
the  hour  had  glorified  it,  sanctified  it.  All 
thought  of  leaving  it  for  bigger  quarters  had 
vanished;  it  would  be  time  enough  to  think  of 
luxuries  when  each  of  her  countrymen  had  a 
roof  again,  and  clothes  —  and  food.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  but  a  peace  as  profound  and 
sweet  as  the  peace  of  death  was  in  her  heart. 

She  laid  her  father's  war  cross,  in  its  simple 
case,  back  in  the  trunk ;  then  she  put  the  rose  in 
a  vase  on  the  window-sill,  to  bloom  its  trium- 
phant little  hour. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ELMER  JOHNSTON  was  one  of  those  Amer- 
icans who  grew  restive  under  three  years  of 
diplomacy  and  applied  idealism ;  he  was  tempera- 
mentally not  a  watchful  waiter  —  he  loved  a 
fight.  In  January,  1917,  his  patience  suddenly 
snapped  over  a  new  piece  of  German  submarine 
insolence,  and  he  walked  out  of  his  Washington 
Mews  studio,  leaving  canvases,  paints,  brushes, 
where  he  dropped  them,  and  joined  the  American 
Ambulance. 

Through  a  mutual  acquaintance,  Venable  se- 
cured the  vacated  apartment.  He  moved  in  such 
impedimenta  as  was  necessary  to  convert  it  into 
a  sculptor's  studio,  and  tried  to  settle  to  work. 
With  little  success,  however  —  partly  because  of 
Peggy's  behavior,  and  partly  because  no  one 
seemed  to  understand  why  he  had  returned  to 
America  at  such  a  time.  The  implication  was 
embarrassingly  clear.  He  assured  himself  it  was 
nobody's  damned  business,  and  stubbornly  re- 
fused to  look  at  the  pictures  his  memory  flashed 
up,  of  certain  scenes  in  a  Paris  hospital,  and  from 
stories  he  had  heard.  But  even  when  he  was  not 

239 


240  PEGGY-ELISE 

aware  of  the  cause,  he  felt  uncomfortably  nagged. 

Then  Peggy  had  explained  her  refusal  to  marry 
him.  It  was  not,  as  he  had  half  supposed,  be- 
cause of  his  objection  to  a  family,  but  because  of 
his  utter  selfishness  —  his  objection  was  only  an 
aggravated  instance  of  it. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  but  /  think  that 
shows  a  good  deal  of  consideration  for  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  a  shade  sadly,  "  but  it 
was  a  secondary  consideration." 

"  I  suppose  the  trouble  with  me  is  that  I  have 
a  too  pagan  attitude  toward  love." 

"  But  even  the  pagans  raised  little  pagans." 

"  Yes,  because  in  those  days  safety  lay  in  num- 
bers. What  I  meant  was  that  I  want  marriage 
to  be  a  source  of  pleasure  —  not  of  annoyance." 

Peggy  regarded  him  gravely. 

"  I  think  perhaps  you  do  not  realize  that  when 
women  are  considering  getting  married,  they 
think  things  over  much  as  men  do  —  they  decide 
that  this  man  would  be  a  good  husband,  but  a 
sad  lover,  and  that  one  would  be  a  good  lover  but 
a  poor  husband  —  just  as  a  man  often  gives  up  a 
fascinating  woman  for  one  who  is  dependable, 
who  —  has  reverence  for  marriage,  and  all  that  it 
means.  I  believe,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  the 
worth-while  men  and  women  —  want  something 
—  more  —  than  a  mistress  or  a  lover,  wrhen  they 
marry  —  is  it  not  so?" 


PEGGY-ELISE  241 

Venable  was  petulant. 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  a  question  of  —  value  — 
it 's  wholly  a  matter  of  temperament.  Marriage 
is  a  blanket  that  covers  a  multitude  of  relations 
—  you  take  your  choice.  Society  enforces  the 
ceremony  on  you,  with  the  alternative  of  ostra- 
cism if  you  rebel  —  but,  beyond  that,  it  seems  to 
me  it  has  no  power  and,  I  imagine,  little  concern. 
I  know  a  man,  for  instance,  who  married  a 
woman  because  she  had  a  splendid  head  for  busi- 
ness —  he  saw  that  it  would  be  an  advantageous 
union  —  she  was  n't  specially  attractive  to  him  in 
any  other  way  —  the}'  are  n't  much  more  than 
business  partners  —  but  that 's  what  they  want. 
And,  in  the  same  way,  if  it  happens  that  all  you 
want  of  a  woman  is  that  she  should  be  a  charm- 
ing mistress  and  a  delightful  companion  —  if 
you  don't  want  several  children  interfering  with 
your  work  —  you  're  not  outraging  any  conven- 
tion—  you're  simply  managing  to  do  as  you 
please,  within  it  —  and  in  spite  of  it."  He 
flicked  the  ash  somewhat  irritably  from  his  cig- 
arette. 

"  But,  Gilbert  —  marriage  is  something  more 
than  a  convention  —  it  is  the  most  sacred  rela- 
tion in  the  world!  And  why  should  you  be  con- 
tent to  know  only  part  of  its  joys?  Me  —  I 
would  like  to  live  the  fullest  life  possible,  through 
it  —  to  be  not  only  a  wife,  and  mistress,  but  —  a 


242  PEGGY-ELISE 

mother.     It  is  so  strange  to  me,  that  you  who 
thrill  when  you  are  making  something  —  lifelike 

—  out  of  marble,  have  no  desire  to  —  to  create 
something  really  alive." 

"No  —  I  admit  it  does  n't  thrill  me,  specially, 
to  contemplate  a  function  all  life  has  in  common 
with  me  —  kittens  and  puppies  are  a  product  of 
the  same  forces  that  fashion  human  young." 

Peggy  was  silent,  a  long  time,  sitting  very  still ; 
the  mysterious  Door  that  sometimes  seemed  to 
open  in  her,  swung  back,  now,  and  let  in  a  blaze 
of  light ;  it  illumined  the  walls  of  the  Dark  Cham- 
ber, and  let  her  read  the  ancient  writings 
thereon.  .  .  .  When  she  at  last  spoke,  her  eyes 
were  luminous  and  her  voice  vibrant  with  feel- 
ing. 

"  You  are  all  wrong,  Gilbert,  mon  ami.  It  is 
true  that  animals  have  the  creative  function,  too ; 
but  we  give  our  little  ones  something  more  than 
they  give  theirs  —  a  conscience,  perhaps  —  a 
sense  of  right  and  wrong.  Every  human  being 
has  it  —  it  is  the  source  of  ideals.  That  is  what 
I  mean,"  she  said  eagerly ;  "  it  is  only  human  be- 
ings that  have  ideals  —  the  whole  fate  of  the 
world  rests  with  them  —  it  makes  them  seem  like 

—  gods  —  some  way." 

"  Yet  you  have  told  me  that  I  have  no  ideals," 
he  said,  smiling  half  amusedly. 

"  You  have  them,  of  course,  but  I  think  you  do 


PEGGY-ELISE  243 

not  —  follow  them  —  sometimes.  Sometimes  — 
you  are  selfish." 

Venable  studied  her  narrowly. 

"  You  have  changed,  Peggy-Elise,"  he  charged, 
at  length. 

"  Yes  —  perhaps  a  little ;  one  cannot  remain 
always  the  same." 

"  I  liked  you  very  well  as  you  were,"  he  said, 
with  the  tender,  imploring  smile  that  always 
made  him  so  difficult  to  resist. 

"Yes,"  she  smiled  back,  "but  I  did  not  like 
myself  at  all." 

"  Do  you  like  yourself,  now?  "  he  asked  whim- 
sically. 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  myself." 

"  Nor  with  me.  I  think  it ' s  you,  not  I,  dear, 
who  have  to  learn  what  love  is." 

\renable  thought  many  times  of  this  conversa- 
tion. He  was  thinking  of  it  as  he  stood  at  the 
window  of  his  Washington  Mews  studio,  one 
stormy  morning  in  mid-March,  watching  the 
pouring  rain  splash  up  from  the  paving  stones 
and  swirl  down  the  inadequate  gutters.  In  spite 
of  himself,  her  accusations  of  selfishness  had 
taken  hold  of  his  mind.  Inconsistently,  his  new 
respect  for  her,  as  an  artist,  had  increased  his 
respect  for  her  opinions,  and  in  one  direction,  at 
least,  he  had  to  admit  that  she  was  right ;  it  was 
selfishness  that  had  kept  him  out  of  the  war  — 


244  PEGGY-ELISE 

he  had  dreaded  the  loathsome  discomforts  of  the 
life ;  furthermore,  there  was  every  chance  that  he 
might  be  injured,  in  the  first  encounter  —  be 
maimed  in  his  hand,  or  blinded  —  and  for  the 
splendid  career  he  had  much  reason  to  expect  he 
would  have  to  substitute  some  occupation  for  the 
blind  or  crippled.  Or  he  might  be  killed,  out- 
right, without  ever  firing  a  shot.  There  was  no 
taint  of  cowardice  in  these  speculations;  on  the 
contrary,  danger  held  for  him  the  fascination 
that  it  does  for  many  men.  It  was  simply  that 
it  seemed  to  him  like  folly,  to  risk  a  life  —  per- 
haps to  no  purpose  —  whose  flickering  out  would 
mean  the  extinction  of  rare  gifts.  Even  Peggy 
had  urged  him  to  live  for  his  work.  He  recalled 
how  convincingly  she  had  spoken  of  the  artist's 
high  destiny,  that  night  in  the  Maison  Chevalier, 
as  they  sat  by  the  great  fireplace,  the  flames  light- 
ing her  lovely,  tired  face  less  than  some  strange 
inner  glow.  The  urgings  of  his  conscience,  awak- 
ened by  the  sights  he  had  witnessed  the  previous 
night  at  Verdun,  had  had  too  little  vitality  to 
withstand  the  comfort  of  her  argument.  But 
now,  as  he  stared  across  the  rain-swept  Mews 
into  the  studio  where  Feodor  Sierzycki  was  work- 
ing, frenziedly,  by  gaslight,  on  his  magnificent 
figure  of  "  Russia  Awakening  " —  breathing  into 
it  a  passionate  love  for  his  country  and  a  flaming 
hatred  for  her  exploiters,  Venable  saw  that,  at 


PEGGY-ELISE  245 

bottom,  what  had  kept  him  out  of  the  war  was 
indifference  to  the  fate  of  the  world  —  the  fate, 
as  Peggy  had  said,  that  lay  in  the  hands  of  hu- 
man beings.  The  German  outrages  had  filled 
him  with  loathing  for  the  Germans ;  but  they  had 
not  filled  him  with  love  for  the  outraged  .  .  . 
with  pity,  that  puts  a  sword  in  one's  hand.  Even 
his  hatred  had  no  splendor  —  it  flared  up  only 
at  intervals  and  did  not  affect  his  conduct. 
Nothing  affected  it,  he  realized,  except  what  af- 
fected his  personal  happiness.  But  w^ere  not 
most  men  like  that?  The  French  and  English 
were  fighting  for  reasons  that  vitally  affected 
their  welfare.  But  what  about  the  Belgians? 
What  about  the  American  Legion?  The  Belgians 
needed  only  to  have  stood  aside,  and  the  Hun- 
nish  hordes  would  have  marched  peacefully 
through  the  land,  leaving  it  as  they  had  found 
it,  and  a  little  richer,  perhaps,  for  some  German 
gold.  But  from  Albert  of  Belgium,  down  to  the 
humblest  subject,  there  was  not  a  man  whose 
ideal  of  honor  would  permit  him  to  break  his 
country's  word.  And  so,  Venable  saw,  though 
the  Belgian  race  was  a  thing  of  fragments,  scat- 
tered over  the  globe,  and  Belgium  and  Flanders 
were  names  for  a  land  that  had  been  crushed 
out  of  all  resemblance  to  itself  under  the  grind- 
ing heel  of  Germany,  the  spirit  of  Belgium  — 
dazzling,  invincible,  intact  —  the  "  something 


246  PEGGY-ELISE 

more,"  the  ideal,  that  each  man  had  died  for, 
lived  and  would  live,  forever. 

And  the  American  Legion?  No  thought  of 
their  happiness  had  actuated  them,  unless,  in- 
deed, they  could  know  no  joy  in  a  world  befouled 
by  oppression.  .  .  .  These  were  Peggy's  "  worth- 
while "  people  —  these  little  precious  handfuls  of 
Belgians  and  Americans  —  and  he,  Venable,  was 
not  of  them.  He  faced  the  truth  squarely. 

He  turned  round  from  the  window,  and  con- 
templated the  Victory,  on  the  modeling  stand ;  it 
was  a  failure.  For  weeks,  he  had  been  blaming 
the  fact  on  the  lack  of  a  good  model  —  none  of 
them  had  reflected  the  spirit  of  proud  triumph 
that  he  had  wanted  —  none  of  them  had  lent  him 
inspiration.  He  had  worked,  finally,  without  a 
model.  He  admitted  frankly  that  he  had  needed 
Peggy —  he  had  had  her  in  mind  for  this  Vic- 
tory, at  the  time  he  was  doing  the  Phryne,  in 
Paris.  He  studied  the  figure  critically.  It  rep- 
resented a  woman,  life  sized,  sword  in  hand,  her 
garments  blown,  as  in  the  act  of  walking,  her 
head  high ;  it  expressed  victory  in  every  line,  yet, 
somehow  —  it  seemed  to  Venable  —  it  was  a  cold, 
impersonal  victory  —  it  lacked  something  vital. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  there  came  to  him  a 
sense  of  limitation  —  a  question  as  to  the  breadth 
of  his  genius.  He  thought  of  his  past  work.  As 
he  recalled  the  subjects  —  Bacchus,  Satyr  and 


PEGGY-ELISE  247 

Nymphs,  Mercury,  Pierrot  —  the  many  studies  of 
similar  nature  —  and  lastly,  the  Phryne  —  he  re- 
alized that,  without  exception,  his  work  had  ex- 
pressed one  or  other  of  the  ruling  human  passions 

—  not  once  had  he  soared  into  the  ideal.     His  art 
had  elevated  many  earth-born  themes,  but  he  had 
brought  nothing  down  from  the  stars  to  elevate 
his  art. 

In  the  midst  of  these  unflattering  reflections, 
Peggy  arrived. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  She  searched  his 
face. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  all  the  morning  I  have  felt 
that," —  she  hesitated  — "  that  you  needed  me." 

"  I  need  you,  always/'  he  said,  with  simple 
earnestness. 

She  flushed  happily,  under  his  tone. 

"Has  nothing  happened  —  really?"  she  per- 
sisted. "  You  look  —  different." 

"  Nothing  —  except  that  I  have  been  thinking 

—  you  claim  that  that  changes  one.     Let  me  have 
your  umbrella  and  things." 

"These  are  for  lunch," — she  set  down  some 
packages  — "  and  these  are  daffodils."  She  un- 
wrapped a  paper  cone,  shaking  the  yellow  blos- 
soms loose.  "  But  it  is  immoral  —  the  price  you 
charge  for  flowers,  here  in  America  —  they  are 
what  I  miss!  Think  what  we  used  to  buy,  back 


248  PEGGY-ELISE 

of  the  Madeline,  for  a  few  sous !  "  She  shrugged 
her  raincoat  from  her  shoulders,  into  his  hands. 
He  took  it,  with  a  smile  that  only  accentuated 
the  strange  new  sternness  in  his  face.  It  baffled 
Peggy  and  attracted  her.  It  was  almost  as 
though  a  mask  had  been  snatched  away,  reveal- 
ing a  more  sensitive,  finer  face  beneath  —  one 
that  the  fluttering  scarf  of  Truth  had  brushed,  in 
passing.  She  felt  suddenly  nearer  to  him  than 
she  had  ever  been. 

When  he  had  hung  her  raincoat  on  the  back  of 
an  easel  he  joined  her  by  the  fire.  He  stood  for 
a  while  looking  down  at  her,  wondering  what  had 
brought  her  to  him  in  such  weather  —  and  if  she 
had  come,  as  she  said,  because  she  had  thought 
he  needed  her  or  because  she  had  needed  him. 
Her  strong,  self-reliant  profile  discouraged  the 
latter  supposition ;  it  suggested  the  person  whose 
greatest  need  would  be  another's  need  of  her. 
In  the  midst  of  his  uncertainty  it  flashed  into 
his  mind  that  the  reason,  possibly,  why  he  had 
always  found  Peggy  incomprehensible  was  be- 
cause she  did  not  "  play  the  game  " —  she  knew 
none  of  its  laws,  apparently,  and,  doubtless, 
would  have  scorned  them  if  she  had;  she  spoke 
and  acted,  he  believed,  out  of  a  fearless,  innate 
sincerity.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  her 
head  tenderly. 

"You  are  a  dear  woman,  Peggy-Elise  —  the 


PEGGY-ELISE  249 

dearest   I   have   ever  known  —  and   the   best." 

She  thrilled.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
used  an  affectionate  tone  toward  her ;  usually,  he 
was  either  persuasively  passionate  or  simply 
comradely.  It  seemed,  in  some  new  way,  to  take 
into  account  sides  of  her  that  he  had  hitherto  ig- 
nored or  been  ignorant  of.  It  had  a  feel  of  do- 
mesticity —  a  husband  might  speak  so  to  his 
wife,  at  the  end  of  some  specially  trying  day  in 
her  life.  She  smiled  up  at  him,  for  answer. 

"  How  is  your  work  going?  "  she  inquired,  after 
a  moment. 

"  All  wrong."  He  went  over  to  the  figure.  "  I 
wish  you  'd  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

Peggy  examined  it,  thoughtfully. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  good  Victory,"  she  said 
finally,  "  but  it  is  not  the  Victory  for  this  war  — 
it  is  so  powerful  that  it  suggests  an  easy  conquest 
—  a  purely  military  triumph.  I  think,  Gilbert, 
the  Victory  for  this  war  should  show  great  — 
weariness  —  almost  exhaustion  —  and  indomi- 
table human  courage.  I  would  make  her  very 
worn  —  her  clothes  frayed  a  little,  her  face  and 
body  thin,  and  —  spiritualized."  As  she  talked, 
her  own  face  and  form  involuntarily  responded 
to  her  thought,  and  she  stood  there,  in  all  the 
incongruity  of  a  trim  modern  "  rainy-day  "  suit, 
the  incarnation  of  the  Victory  she  had  just  out- 
lined. 


250  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  You  mean,"  Venable's  eyes  were  fixed,  crit- 
ically, on  the  figure,  "  this  war  has  been  so  ter- 
rible—  you  think  it  will  be  so  —  hard-won  — 
that  the  conquerors  will  be  too  weary,  too  spent, 
to  exult?" 

"  Not  exactly  that ;  I  mean  it  will  be  a  —  spirit- 
ual victory,  a  victory  of  love  —  of  sacrifice,  for  an 
ideal  of  brotherhood.  I  think  it  should  show 
mankind  self-crucified  —  stepping,  somehow,  out 
of  all  its  human  failings,  into  godhood.  The 
mood  would  be  reverent  —  not  exultant —  Do 
you  not  think  so?  " 

Venable  caught  up  a  piece  of  charcoal. 

"  Will  you  hold  that  pose  a  moment?  "  he  re- 
quested, beginning  to  sketch  her  rapidly.  He 
worked  for  fifteen  minutes,  making  notes  from 
various  angles.  When  he  had  finished,  his  face 
wore  the  absorbed  expression  Peggy  had  seen  on 
it,  so  often,  on  the  days  wrhen  the  Phryne  had 
been  coming  along  well.  He  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten her  presence.  "  Could  you  hold  that  a 
minute  longer? "  he  asked,  in  an  engrossed 
tone. 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  brought  clay 
and  commenced  to  build  up  a  new  figure.  He 
worked  silently,  swiftly,  like  one  possessed;  he 
was  wholly  unconscious  of  the  passing  of  time, 
and  Peggy  was  too  interested,  too  wildly  happy, 
to  be  concerned  with  the  trivial  matter  of  an 


PEGGY-ELISE  251 

aching  muscle,  here  and  there.  When  he  finally 
said :  "  Well  —  that 's  all  I  can  do  with  it,  now," 
and  drew  the  girl  back,  with  him,  to  inspect  his 
work,  they  were  both  a  little  breathless  over  the 
result.  Through  all  its  roughness  and  absence 
of  detail,  it  breathed  the  sublime  spirit  of  vic- 
torious self-sacrifice. 

"  It 's  the  best  thing  I  've  ever  done,"  he  said 
elatedly,  "  and  I  could  n't  have  done  it  without 
you.  This  is  what  I  think  marriage  would  mean 
to  me,  with  you  —  the  doing  of  big  work  —  to- 
gether, Peggy-Elise, —  success !  Would  n't  that 
seem  to  you  a  worth-while  life?  " 

She  did  not  look  at  him ;  would  he  ever  think 
of  any  one  but  himself? 

"Yes  —  it  would  be  worth-while,  but  —  it 
would  be  incomplete.  I  would  have  to  give  up 
certain  ideals  —  the  very  things  that,  it  may  be, 
make  me  —  useful  to  you  —  an  *  inspiration/  as 
you  call  it.  If  I  were  to  live  the  —  way  I  would 
have  to,  with  you  —  I  would  hate  myself,  in  six 
months.  And  you,  too,  perhaps." 

"  Suppose  I  should  agree  to  live  according  to 
your  ideals?  "  he  urged.  "  Suppose  I  should  be 
williug  to  have  some  little  Peggy  s  and  Gilberts 
running  around  — ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  would  be  doing  it  only  to  please  me ;  I 
know  your  nature." 


252  PEGGY-ELISE 

He  began  to  work  in  some  detail  on  the  Vic- 
tory's head. 

"  I  admit  I  'm  not  naturally  —  paternal,  and  I 
am,  apparently,  naturally  selfish  —  to  save  my 
life,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  be  different.  I  don't 
like  children ;  and,  though  I  can  see  just  how  bad 
it  sounds,  I  can't  care  enough  for  all  those  people 
—  over  there  —  to  want  to  lay  down  my  life  for 
them.  What  would  you  do,  in  a  case  like  mine? 
At  least,  now  I  am  honest  with  myself." 

"You  are  honest  with  one  side  of  yourself," 
Peggy  corrected  gravely.  "  You  are  honest  with 
the  artist  in  you ;  but  you  outrage  the  man." 

"  Perhaps  the  man  is  n't  as  strong  in  me  as  the 
artist?  "  He  leaned  back,  to  view  his  work. 

"  That  is  impossible,  Gilbert !  The  man  in  you 
is  the  real  you  —  it  is  just  an  accident  that  you 
are  an  artist;  you  might  have  been  trained  for 
quite  different  work  —  they  might  have  made  a 
lawyer  of  you,  or  a  doctor.  Then,  all  the  things 
that  you  lay  now  to  your  temperament  would 
have  been  looked  upon  as  weaknesses  —  you 
would  have  been  regarded  as  so  much  less  a 
man,  because  of  them.  It  is  only  the  artist,  in 
you,  that  is  callous  to  the  sufferings  of  the  people 
'  over  there,'  as  you  say  —  You,  yourself,  have 
moments  of  burning  to  give  a  hundred  lives,  if 
you  had  them,  to  right  the  wrongs  that  have 
been  done !  I  know  it !  " 


PEGGY-ELISE  253 

Venable  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  stood  think- 
ing. 

"Those  moments  are  few  and  far  between, 
Peggy,"  he  said  at  last :  "  they  are  n't  my  real 
convictions,  or  I  'd  be  different." 

"  Yes,  I  used  to  think  that  way,  too," —  she 
smiled  very  sweetly  — "  but  I  believe,  now,  I  was 
wrong.  We  are  so  strangely  built  that  we  have 
to  live  up  to  our  fine  moments  even  before  we 
can  really  want  to  live  up  to  them.  That  sounds 
like  a  paradox,  but  it  is  n't  —  often  we  do  things, 
because  we  see  that  they  are  right,  without  any 
desire  at  all  to  do  them.  And  somehow  —  it 
makes  us  happy,  and  stronger;  have  you  not 
noticed  it?  The  only  way  to  change  ourselves 
seems  to  be  to  make  ourselves  follow  our  best 
impulses." 

"  But  just  a  moment  ago  you  refused  to  con- 
sider my  reformation  in  regard  to  children,"  he 
protested,  smiling  a  little  amusedly. 

"  Because  it  was  not  genuine,  I  think ;  it  was 
only  to  get  something  you  wanted."  There  was  a 
smile  on  her  face,  but  none  in  her  voice. 

"  And  once  —  you  remember,"  he  said  slowly, 
"you  urged  me  not  to  go  into  the  fight.  You 
said—" 

"  Yes  —  I  know,"  Peggy  interrupted,  her  face 
aflame,  "  and  I  was  sincere  in  what  I  said,  only  " 
—  she  hesitated,  distressed  — "  I  was  influenced, 


254  PEGGY-ELISE 

because  you  had  been  so  kind  to  ine,  and  —  be- 
cause you  were  attractive,  and  I  did  not  want 
to  lose  you  —  I  —  was  all  alone,  and  —  besides 
—  I  did  not  see  many  things  then,  as  I  do  now. 
I  think,  now,  that  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  did  not 
create  the  Revolution  —  they  only  precipitated 
it;  it  would  have  sprung  up,  sooner  or  later,  out 
of  the  terrible  selfishness  and  extravagance  of 
Louis  Seize  —  the  people  would  have  revolted, 
anyhow,  when  they  began  to  be  hungry.  And 
it  is  so,  in  this  war  —  they  do  not  need  any- 
thing to  make  them  fight!  Mon  Dieu!  The 
greatest  book,  or  work  of  art  in  the  world,  would 
not  stir  them  as  much  as  one  little  story  of 
German  outrage.  Could  anything  move  a  man 
more  than  to  know  that  the  women,  the  children, 
of  his  country  are  being  violated?  To-day,  it  is 
a  comrade's  wife;  to-morrow,  it  may  be  his  own." 

Venable  was  silent. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked  suddenly,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "  Good  heavens !  It 's  three 
o'clock!  You  must  be  starved.  Forgive  me, 
Peggy -Elise  —  I  have  been  so  interested  —  I 
did  n't  realize  the  hour  it  was  getting  to  be ! ' ' 

"  It  is  nothing,"  Peggy  laughed.  "  I  forgot, 
too.  I  have  everything  here  for  lunch  —  you 
work  while  I  get  it  ready." 

When  she  called  him  to  sit  down,  he  was  gaz- 


PEGGY-ELISE  255 

ing  at  his  Victory  with  a  faraway  look  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Suppose  the  Germans  should  win  —  what 
would  we  do  with  this?  " 

"  They  cannot  win ! "  Her  eyes  flashed. 
"  But  even  if  they  should  seem  to  do  so,  we  would 
still  need  a  Victory  to  —  commemorate  the 
triumph  over  selfishness  in  the  heart  of  every 
man  who  has  taken  up  arms!  Is  it  not  so?" 
She  fixed  her  earnest,  gray  eyes  on  him  ques- 
tioningly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Eat  your  omelet,"  she  suggested,  as  he  sat 
staring  at  his  plate,  without  touching  his  food. 
"  It  is  not  good  when  it  is  cold." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"T  11  TELL,  if  you  don't  know  what  Mrs.  Ever- 

V  V     sham's  reputation  is,  Mother,  I  do,  and 

Is   has   got  to   stop   going   around  with   her." 

Allyn  Austen  passed  his  coffee  cup  to  his  mother. 

"  Half  a  cup,  please." 

Isabelle  glanced  up  from  the  egg  she  was  eat- 
ing, her  cheeks  flushed  with  anger. 

"  You  can  mind  your  own  business,  Allyn 
Austen,"  she  said  hotly.  "  I  '11  go  with  whom  I 
please!  Mrs.  Eversham  is  my  best  friend  —  if 
it  weren't  for  her  I  wouldn't  have  any  fun  at 
all!" 

"  I  've  heard  some  things  about  her !  "  Allyn 
retorted  contemptuously.  "  I  'm  not  going  to 
have  my  sister  talked  about! " 

"Well,  I  guess  she's  as  good  as  the  people 
you  go  around  with!  We  saw  you,  the  other 
night,  with  that  Mrs.  Taylor  —  Mrs.  Eversham 
gave  me  her  pedigree !  "  she  said  triumphantly. 

"  It 's  different  with  men." 

"Do  you  call  yourself  a  man?"  his  sister 
sneered.  "  Why,  you  're  just  out  of  short 
pants!" 

256 


PEGGY-ELISE  257 

"  Don't  make  any  difference  —  I  'm  a  man,  all 
right!" 

Mrs.  Austen  gestured  to  command  silence. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Eversham, 
Allyn?" 

"  Everything !  "  he  accused  vehemently.  "  I 
heard  last  night  they  want  to  get  her  out  of  this 
house." 

Anne,  who  had  listened  to  the  conversation,  in 
silence,  nodded. 

"  I  heard  it,  too  —  from  Paulette.  She  says 
she  has  lovers,  the  way  they  do  in  Europe,"  she 
announced  innocently. 

"  Anne ! "  the  family  exclaimed,  with  one 
flabbergasted  voice. 

"  *  Anne '  what?  "  the  child  asked,  in  surprise. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"  She  says  she  gets  presents  and  things,  from 
them." 

Mrs.  Austen  started  to  speak,  but  Allyn  burst 
out: 

"  Paulette  knows  what  she 's  talking  about, 
anyway ! " 

"  She  did  n't  tell  you  who  gave  Allyn  his  new 
diamond  cuff-links,  did  she?  "  Isabelle  demanded, 
with  intense  maliciousness. 

Her  brother's  face  went  crimson;  his  hair 
looked  almost  bleached,  against  it ;  his  blue  eyes 
blazed;  his  lips  twitched  furiously.  He  jumped 


258  PEGGY-ELISE 

up    from    the    table,    overturning    his    chair. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  links,  Allyn?"  his 
mother  asked. 

"  It 's  nobody's  business  where  I  got  them !  " 
Anger  choked  him  so  that  he  could  scarcely  ar- 
ticulate. Isabelle  smiled  with  goading  triumph. 
He  shook  his  hand  at  her,  in  a  rage. 

"  I  did  n't  intend  to  tell  on  you,  but  I  will, 
now ! "  he  shrieked.  "  Do  you  know  what  she 
does?  She  pretends  to  you  she  's  down  in  Polly 
Eversham's  apartment,  but  she  meets  Jack  Suf- 
fern,  there,  and  goes  out  to  the  theater,  and 
supper,  and  everywhere  —  with  him !  You  're 
upstairs  playing  bridge,  and  you  don't  know 
what 's  going  on !  " 

"  I  've  only  been  out  with  him  a  few  times ! " 
his  sister  defended. 

"  Who  is  Jack  Suffern?  "  Mrs.  Austen  asked  in 
a  tense  voice,  that  matched  her  white  face. 

"'Happy'  Jack  Suffern?  Any  one  can  tell 
you  who  he  is !  " 

Isabelle  burst  into  violent  tears;  Allyn  flung 
out  of  the  room,  ignoring  his  mother's  attempts 
to  detain  him ;  Anne  vanished. 

Mrs.  Austen  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  face 
in  her  hands,  thinking  —  rather,  trying  to  think , 
Her  brain  whirled  with  the  things  she  had  just 
heard.  She  realized,  in  a  panic,  that  what  Allyn 


PEGGY-ELISE  259 

had  said  about  her  was  true;  she  knew  almost 
nothing  of  their  life  —  they  came  and  went  as 
they  pleased ;  and  this  was  made  more  inevitable 
by  the  fact  that  she  had  given  the  older  children 
a  far  too  generous  allowance,  when  they  had 
moved  to  New  York  —  she  had  many  reasons  to 
regret  that  act!  As  for  Anne  — !  She  was 
shocked  and  heartsick  over  the  child's  remarks. 
She  rose  and  paced  the  room,  nervously,  her 
lips  set.  At  first,  she  tried  to  comfort  herself 
by  putting  all  the  blame  for  the  situation  on 
her  husband  —  he  had  had  no  right  to  leave 
them!  He  had  thought  only  of  himself!  But 
she  recalled,  miserably,  that  it  was  only  after  she 
had  refused  to  help  him  to  get  out  of  debt  that 
he  had  gone  away.  It  seemed  neither  of  them 
had  thought  much  about  the  children;  they  had 
simply  done  what  they  had  always  wanted  to  do ! 
She  wondered  if  he  were  enjoying  himself.  .  .  . 
She  had  never  had  a  line  from  him,  except  the 
note  asking  that  he  be  informed  if  anything  were 
wrong  with  the  children  —  it  appalled  her  to 
think  how  very  wrong  things  were  with  them, 
now.  And  she  would  die,  rather  than  have  him 
know  —  she  remembered  how  stubbornly  he  had 
always  opposed  bringing  up  a  family  in  the  city 
—  she  would  not  call  on  him,  no  matter  what 
happened. 


260  PEGGY-ELISE 

"Isabelle,"  she  said  sharply,  "I  think  that, 
hereafter,  3^011  had  better  see  as  little  as  possible 
of  Mrs.  Eversham." 

Her  daughter's  attempted  remonstrance  was 
interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  doorbell.  The 
maid  came  in  and  handed  Mrs.  Austen  an  enve- 
lope. She  opened  it  with  nervous  fingers ;  it  bore 
the  crest  of  a  certain  exclusive  milliner. 

"  The  girl  said  she  was  to  wait  for  an  answer." 

Mrs.  Austen  unfolded  the  sheet;  it  was  a  bill 
for  two  hats  she  had  bought,  one  day,  when  she 
was  bored  —  hats  she  hadn't  needed.  She  put 
a  finger  to  her  lips  and  frowned,  studying  the 
words  scribbled  across  a  bottom  corner. 

"We  think  you  may  have  overlooked  this  trifling 
account,  and  will  be  glad  to  have  you  settle  it.  Hop- 
ing for  your  continued,  etc." 

The  "  trifling  account "  was  for  sixty-five  dol- 
lars! She  sat  down  at  her  desk  and  debated, 
worriedly,  for  a  moment.  Then  she  set  her  lips 
in  a  hard  line  and  wrote  a  check  for  twenty-five 
dollars  —  "  Lorette  "  could  wait  for  the  rest ; 
the  hats  hadn't  been  worth  even  that  much  — 
it  was  ridiculous  the  prices  they  charged ! 
Nothing  but  a  band  of  georgette  cr£pe  on  one, 
and  a  silly  feather  on  the  other!  She  made  up 
her  mind  to  trim  her  own  hats,  in  future:  she 


PEGGY-ELISE  261 

always  had  to  do  something  to  the  ones  she 
bought,  anyway! 

She  slipped  the  check  into  an  envelope,  and 
gave  it  to  the  maid ;  then  she  took  out  her  bank- 
book. Of  the  |10,000  she  had  deposited,  in  late 
November,  there  remained  to  her  credit  exactly 
|2060!  In  four  months,  she  had  spent  nearly 
$8000 !  At  first,  she  had  paid  no  attention  to  her 
expenditures;  but  in  February,  she  had  waked 
up  to  the  fact  that,  unless  she  retrenched  — 
vigorously  —  she  would  find  herself,  shortly,  in  a 
serious  predicament.  Two  thousand  and  sixty 
dollars  —  she  stared  at  the  figures ;  it  would  not 
even  cover  the  rent  of  her  apartment  for  the  eight 
months  the  lease  had  yet  to  run !  Why  had  she 
been  so  extravagant.  .  .  . 

She  took  from  a  cubby-hole,  a  sheet  of  paper, 
on  which  were  two  parallel  columns  of  figures; 
one  was  a  list  of  her  approximate  monthly  ex- 
penses, up  to  March ;  the  other  was  what  she  had 
hoped  to  reduce  them  to.  She  ran  her  pencil 
down  them,  for  the  hundredth  time: 

Apart $300.00  $300.00 

Maid    40.00  30.00 

Groc.,  meat,  etc 300.00  150.00 

Gas,  elec 10.00  10.00 

Tele 10.00  5.00 

A.  &  I.  (Allow.)  150.00  75.00 


262  PEGGY-ELISE 

Gov 50.00              

Th.  Tick 150.00  50.00 

Clothes    400.00 

Laundry   30.00  25.00 

Miscel.  —  Taxis,     cards, 

lunches,  charity,  etc..  325.00  100.00 


$1765.00          $745.00 

Her  mouth  twisted  cynically  as  she  surveyed 
the  second  column.  She  pushed  the  sheet  from 
her,  in  disgust.  All  her  efforts  had  met  with 
failure.  The  children  had  been  indignant  over 
the  proposed  cut  in  their  allowance ;  they  accused 
her  of  squandering  all  the  money  on  cards  —  it 
was  obvious  they  considered  her  selfish  and  close. 
When  she  explained  the  situation,  they  received 
her  appeals  coldly ;  they  appeared  not  to  realize 
it  would  be  to  their  own  interest  to  help  her  out ! 
Isabelle  said  she  did  n't  intend  to  sit  at  home 
and  miss  all  the  fun.  There  had  been  a  threat 
in  her  manner;  Mrs.  Austen  understood  it,  now. 

In  the  kitchen,  it  had  been  the  same ;  the  girl 
had  shrugged,  indifferently,  when  she  had  re- 
monstrated with  her  for  carelessness  and  waste- 
fulness—  she  had  found  a  half  chicken  in  the 
garbage  can,  once ;  and,  at  other  times,  nearly  a 
pound  of  the  finest  steak,  quantities  of  bacon, 
chops,  and  all  the  left-over  canned  vegetables,  for 
which  she  had  paid  importation  prices.  It  made 


PEGGY-ELI8E  263 

her  sick  to  see  her  money  thrown  away  in  such  a 
heartless  fashion! 

When  she  dismissed  Anne's  governess,  giving 
as  a  reason  that  the  child  disliked  her  —  which 
was  only  partially  true  —  she  had  also  dis- 
charged the  maid,  who  had  always  slept  home  be- 
cause of  the  shortage  of  room  in  the  Austen 
apartment,  and  engaged  one  who  would  sleep 
there,  so  that  Anne  might  not  be  alone,  nights. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  new  maid  interpreted 
this  literally,  sleeping  at  the  Austens',  it  is  true, 
but  spending  almost  every  evening  out!  As  a 
result,  Anne  had  been  sent  down  to  stay  with 
Paulette  White,  while  their  mothers  played  cards 
until  all  hours  of  the  night. 

Paulette  and  her  mother  had  always  lived 
abroad,  until  the  war,  much  to  their  disgust, 
drove  them  home.  A  life  spent  in  the  continen- 
tal capitals  had  made  the  child  pitifully  sophisti- 
cated. Mrs.  Austen  had  suspected,  for  some 
time,  that  she  was  not  an  ideal  companion  for 
Anne,  but  she  had  not  imagined  that  any  child 
of  eleven  could  possess  the  particular  knowledge 
Paulette  had  imparted  to  her,  in  connection  with 
Mrs.  Eversham.  From  the  way  she  had  spoken, 
at  breakfast,  it  was  clear  she  had  not  understood 
the  things  Paulette  had  told  her,  but  she  soon 
would;  she  must  not  play  with  her  any  more. 
Yet  it  would  not  be  so  easy  to  issue  the  command. 


264  PEGGY-ELISE 

She  had  either  to  leave  her  with  the  White  child, 
whose  mother  was  the  leader  of  the  little  bridge- 
mad  crowd,  and  to  whom  she  owed  money;  or 
alone  in  the  apartment;  or  give  up  bridge,  and 
stay  with  her,  herself.  But  that  was  out  of  the 
question,  since  she  was  now  desperately  depend- 
ing on  the  nightly  games  to  help  her  out  of  her 
difficulties.  So  far,  however,  she  had  lost  more 
than  she  had  won. 

A  sheaf  of  March  bills  lay  on  the  desk  before 
her.  A  nervous  nausea  seized  her,  as  she  went 
over  them;  when  they  were  paid,  her  balance 
would  be  practically  wiped  out!  Most  of  them 
were  irritatingly  innocent  of  items  —  she 
couldn't  tell  what  she  was  paying  for  —  she 
might  be  paying  for  things  she  had  never  had! 
It  was  n't  in  human  nature  not  to  cheat,  she  had 
come  to  see,  if  there  was  no  chance  of  being 
found  out.  She  had  told  the  maid,  repeatedly, 
to  save  the  slips  that  came  with  the  orders,  but 
it  had  been  a  waste  of  breath.  Two  hundred  and 
seven  dollars  and  eighty-four  cents  for  a  month's 
food !  It  was  impossible ! 

She  pored  over  the  bills,  for  a  long  time,  then 
began  wearily  to  figure ;  if  she  paid  only  a  third 
of  each,  and  practised  the  closest  economy,  she 
would  be  able  —  maybe  —  to  keep  going,  for  an- 
other month  or  two.  But  she  knew  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  give  up  luxuries  without 


PEGGY-ELISE  265 

embarrassment ;  her  new  friends  would  notice  it, 
and  she  dreaded  their  looks  and  private  com- 
ments; then,  too,  they  would  realize  that  it  mat- 
tered to  her  whether  she  won  or  lost  —  and  this 
was  an  intolerable  thought !  She  wished  all  the 
talk  of  America  going  into  the  war  would  come 
to  something!  Then  she  would  have  an  excuse 
for  retrenching. 

But,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  what  people 
thought?  They  did  n't  pay  her  bills.  It  was 
unfair,  it  was  cruel,  that  one  should  have  to  go 
into  debt  and  live  beyond  one's  means  and  be 
worried  to  death,  for  people  who  really  meant 
nothing  to  one,  except  a  good  time.  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten's lip  curled.  "  Good  time !  "  She  realized, 
suddenly,  that  she  had  never  been  so  wretched  in 
her  life.  A  wave  of  longing  swept  over  her  to 
be  back  home  —  a  strange,  new  desire,  to  take 
hold  of  a  place  and  run  it  herself,  to  do  her  own 
marketing,  to  make  her  own  clothes,  to  watch 
every  cent!  If  she  had  only  had  some  idea  of 
managing,  she  wouldn't  be  in  this  hole,  now7. 
If  only  she  could  keep  her  husband  from  know- 
ing! But,  in  twro  months,  at  the  outside,  she 
would  have  to  admit  her  failure.  She  stiffened 
at  the  thought.  Little  by  little  his  silence  had 
brought  home  to  her  his  indifference;  yet  it 
seemed  incredible  he  could  care  so  little  after  all 
those  years  ...  he  had  found  her  attractive,  in 


260  PEGGY-ELISE 

many  ways,  she  knew.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  col- 
umns of  figures  she  had  just  made.  In  a  flash, 
she  saw  her  husband,  bent  over  his  study  desk, 
making  similar  columns.  With  a  curious  tight- 
ening around  the  heart,  she  understood,  all  of  a 
sudden,  why  he  had  been  unable  to  write!  Her 
own  worries,  now,  made  it  difficult  for  her  even  to 
think  what  to  order  for  dinner.  And  Isabelle 
and  Allyn  had  refused  to  make  one  sacrifice  to 
help  her.  But  had  they  ever  been  taught  to  con- 
sider any  One?  They  regarded  her  simply  as  an 
exchequer  —  as  they  had  their  father.  .  .  . 
Something  Peggy  had  said  came  back  to  her: 
"  Here  in  America,  parents  seem  to  have  too 
much  desire  to  be  popular  with  their  children; 
I  think  it  would  be  better  if  they  were  to  disci- 
pline them,  a  little,  in  order  to  make  of  them 
fine  future  men  and  women."  She  began  to  be- 
lieve that  Peggy  was  right. 

Anne  wandered  into  the  room,  climbed  up  on 
to  the  window-seat,  and  opened  a  book  in  her 
lap;  but  instead  of  reading,  she  stared  at  the 
chintz  curtain,  with  a  very  dismal  expression. 
At  length  she  sighed. 

"  Don't  you  miss  Daddy,  Mamma  —  some- 
times?" 

Mrs.  Austen  raised  her  shoulders  and  gave  a 
hard  little  laugh,  to  cover  the  surge  of  feeling  the 
child's  words  had  surprisingly  awakened. 


PEGGY-ELISE  267 

"  No !  "  she  scoffed.  "  When  you  've  known 
your  precious  Daddy  as  long  as  I  have,  you  '11  get 
over  paying  any  attention  to  his  eccentric  little 
absences." 

"What's  'eccentric'?" 

"  Selfish !  "  her  mother  snapped  out,  before  she 
had  time  to  think. 

"  But  Daddy  went  away  to  write  a  book  and 
earn  money  —  lots  of  money  —  so  he  could  buy 
us  all  the  things  we  want ;  that  is  n't  selfish ! " 
Anne  argued. 

Her  mother  laughed  peculiarly. 

"  Your  Daddy  's  getting  the  habit  of  staying 
away.  If  he  missed  us,  he  'd  come  back  —  don't 
you  think  so?  " 

"  He  is  coming  back,  when  his  book 's  finished. 
If  it 's  a  success." 

Mrs.  Austen  answered  with  a  short,  dry  laugh. 
The  child  winced ;  her  lip  quivered. 

"  I  'd  be  glad  if  we  were  all  back  in  Flushing 
—  or  away  from  here,  somewhere !  All  I  hear, 
now,  is :  '  What  '11  we  do  with  Anne?  '  It 's  no 
fun  to  be  poked  down  with  Paulette,  or  taken  for  a 
walk  in  that  old  Park,  or  left  home  with  Maggie, 
all  the  time !  I  wish  I  could  live  with  Daddy !  " 

Her  mother  looked  at  her,  thinking  hard ;  what 
she  had  said  was  true  —  at  no  time  had  she  given 
much  thought  to  the  happiness  of  her  youngest 
child.  She  noticed  that  Anne  was  looking  thin 


268  PEGGY-ELISE 

—  her  conscience  smote  her.     /Something  must 
be  done;  yet  what,  in  the  circumstances? 

One  morning,  two  weeks  later,  she  came  in 
from  marketing  —  in  sheer  desperation,  she  had 
tried  doing  her  buying,  herself,  and  had  been 
dumbfounded  at  the  saving  it  effected,  and  at 
the  difference  in  quality  —  to  find  a  note  from 
Anne,  tucked  conspicuously  over  the  transmitter 
of  the  telephone.  It  said : 

"  I  have  gone  to  see  my  father,  so  don't  call  up  the 
police. ' ' 

Mrs.  Austen  was  frantic.  She  thought,  wildly, 
of  all  the  accidents  that  could  befall  the  child 
on  her  trip,  and  there  was  nothing  she  could  do, 
except  telegraph,  later,  to  know  if  she  were  in 
Montvale.  For  an  hour,  she  paced  the  floor. 
She  had  just  sent  the  wire,  when  the  telephone 
rang;  she  could  scarcely  unhook  the  receiver,  in 
her  certainty  that  something  had  happened. 
Then  the  blood  rushed  to  her  head;  her  heart 
pounded;  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
was  her  husband's ! 

"  I  hope  Anne  has  n't  frightened  you,"  he  was 
saying,  with  unaffected  concern ;  "  I  told  her  she 
should  n't  have  come  — "  He  hesitated  in  ap- 
parent embarrassment.  "I  —  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  having  called  up  —  I  wanted  you  to 
know  she  was  all  right," 


PEGGY-ELISE  269 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  you  —  but  I  was  n't 
in  the  least  worried,"  Mrs.  Austen  managed  to 
articulate,  in  a  cold  voice. 

Then  she  sank  into  a  chair,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  icy 
hands. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TEE  week  beginning  Monday,  April  2,  1917, 
was  for  Peggy-Elise,  one  of  such  eventful- 
ness,    of   such   intense,   crowding   emotions   as 
rarely  comes  into  a  life. 

It  began  when  she  opened  her  paper,  Monday 
morning,  and  saw  the  President's  request  that  a 
state  of  war  be  declared  to  exist  between  the 
United  States  and  Germany.  Her  breakfast 
went  untouched,  as  she  sat,  luminous-eyed,  and 
visioned  America  reaching  out  an  invincible  arm 
—  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth  —  across  the 
Atlantic  —  dropping  men  and  munitions  and 
food  out  of  a  giant  hand.  Tears  filled  her  eyes, 
as  she  imagined  the  elation,  the  wild  hope,  in  the 
tired  hearts  of  her  countrymen  at  the  thought  of 
this  new,  powerful  ally  won  to  their  cause  —  to 
her,  it  was  an  accomplished  fact.  Then  began 
the  filibuster  that  drew  the  scornful  eyes  of  the 
whole  world  to  the  little  group  of  men  in  Wash- 
ington, and  held  them  there  for  four  intermin- 
able, blighting  days.  During  those  four  days 
Peggy  grew  thin  and  nervous  from  suspense  — 
it  would  have  been  enough,  without  anything 

270 


PEGGY-ELISE  271 

else;  but,  as  it  happened,  this  effort  by  a  few 
chosen  representatives  to  thwart  the  will  of  a 
great  nation  was  forced  into  the  background  by 
events  of  vital  importance  to  Peggy's  personal 
happiness. 

On  Tuesday,  over  luncheon  with  Mary  Hallam, 
and  in  the  midst  of  an  excited  tirade  against  La 
Follette,  she  received  notice  that  she  was  to  sing 
Mimi,  that  night.  Sofia  Alvarez  had  a  sore 
throat;  there  were  many  to  take  her  place,  but 
Signor  Ferro-Ganaeci  had  his  own  very  excel- 
lent reasons  for  giving  Peggy  the  chance.  Prin- 
cipally, he  wished  to  see  how  she  would  sustain 
a  leading  role,  and  how  she  would  "  take." 
Several  subscribers,  resenting  the  change  in  the 
cast,  went  home  —  and  regretted  it.  The  girl's 
success  was  instant  and  thrilling;  the  general 
opinion  was  that  the  Metropolitan  had  never  seen 
a  more  exquisite,  more  subtly  poignant,  per- 
formance of  Murger's  heroine. 

Peggy  read  the  notices  the  next  morning  in 
growing  bewilderment;  could  it  really  be  she 
they  were  enthusing  about? 

In  the  afternoon  Winthrop  called  for  her. 

"  Perro-Ganacci  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said, 
his  eyes  shining. 

"Are  you  not  feeling  well?"  Peggy  inquired 
solicitously,  thinking  that  he  was  not  looking 
quite  himself. 


272  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  Oh  —  it 's  nothing,  I  guess  —  I  've  been  just 
a  bit  upset,  the  last  day  or  two  —  nothing 
serious." 

The  "  seeing  "  resulted  in  a  contract  that  left 
Peggy  a  little  faint.  She  stupefied  them  all  by 
refusing,  at  first,  to  sign  it  —  she  wanted  to  re- 
turn to  France  and  take  the  place  of  some  one 
who  might  be  acutely  in  need  of  rest  —  but  they 
pointed  out  to  her  that,  with  her  new  income, 
she  might,  if  she  chose,  send  several  strong,  eager 
young  women  over  in  her  place,  and  do  much  to 
help,  besides.  She  yielded  sadly.  The  truth 
was  that  she  had  felt  it  her  duty  to  go —  to  carry 
on,  for  her  father;  but  she  saw  that  the  greater 
sacrifice  was  to  remain  where  she  was,  and  do, 
indirectly,  the  work  she  longed  to  do  with  her 
own  understanding  French  hands.  She  would 
have  to  be  content  with  spending  just  her  vaca- 
tion abroad. 

"  I  want  to  walk  some  of  my  excitement  off," 
she  said,  as  she  and  Winthrop  came  out  of  the 
theater. 

"  Is  it  impertinent  to  ask  why  you  were  so 
anxious  to  return  to  France?  "  her  companion 
asked,  as  they  swung  into  the  avenue  at  Thirty- 
fourth  Street. 

"  But  I  have  told  you ! "  she  replied,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Is  that  —  the  only  reason  ?  "     He  brightened. 


PEGGY-ELISE  273 

"I  thought  you  might  be  going  back  to  —  to 
marry  some  poor  wreck  of  a  Frenchman."  He 
spoke  with  an  attempt  at  lightness. 

"  If  I  were,  it  would  be  but  common  gratitude, 
since  he  would  have  gotten  himself  wrecked  de- 
fending my  country."  She  smiled  tenderly. 

For  blocks,  neither  spoke. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  instead,  Peggy?" 
Winthrop  asked  suddenly.  "  You  are  the  only 
woman  I  have  ever  loved." 

They  stopped,  of  one  accord,  in  a  corner  by  a 
photographer's  show-case.  Peggy's  big  eyes 
were  dark  with  distress.  Winthrop  put  out  his 
hand,  quickly,  in  a  restraining  gesture : 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  have  hurt  you  —  we  won't 
speak  of  it,  again." 

Peggy  blinked  back  the  rushing  tears.  He 
pressed  her  arm,  kindly  —  she  felt  his  hand 
tremble. 

"  Don't  let  it  disturb  you,  dear,"  he  said.  "  If 
there  had  been  any  other  way  to  find  out,  I  'd 
have  taken  it." 

"  There  is  no  one  like  you ! "  the  girl  said 
fervently,  "  and  I  do  care  for  you  —  only  — " 

When  he  left  her  at  her  door,  she  noticed, 
again,  how  badly  he  looked. 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
Winthrop  and  the  answer  she  had  been  obliged 
to  give  him.  She  felt  horribly  depressed.  In 


274  PEGGY-ELISE 

the  morning  there  was  a  note  from  her  uncle, 
asking  her  to  come  out  to  Montvale ;  he  appeared 
so  eager  to  see  her  that  she  put  aside  her  feel- 
ings and  went. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  the  telephone 
rang  in  Mary  Hallam's  studio.  Upstairs, 
Rensky,  forced  to  stop  work  and  hunt  for  a  miss- 
ing tube  of  alizarin  crimson,  suddenly  realized 
that  it  had  been  ringing,  at  brief  intervals,  for 
an  hour.  Mary  was  out,  of  course;  the  matter 
must  be  urgent.  He  hurried  down,  and  climbed 
in  a  window.  A  moment  later,  with  a  grave 
face,  he  went  in  search  of  Peggy;  she,  too,  was 
out.  He  ran  his  long  fingers  through  his  pom- 
padour, in  perplexity,  then  scribbled  a  message. 
It  was  the  first  thing  Mary  saw,  when  she  came 
in,  two  hours  later;  she  stood  staring  at  it,  in 
consternation  —  there  was  no  way  to  get  hold 
of  Peggy  —  she  was  undoubtedly  on  her  way 
home  from  Montvale,  now ;  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  wait.  The  telephone  bell  cut  shrilly  into 
her  deliberations.  She  did  not  hear  the  front 
door  open,  nor  her  own,  as  she  hurried  to  the 
stand.  When  she  at  last  hung  up  the  receiver, 
aghast  at  what  she  had  heard,  and  turned  round, 
Peggy —  with  strained  white  face  and  clenched 
hands, —  was  staring  at  her. 

"Who  is  it  —  that  is  dead?"  she  demanded, 
with  a  violent  effort. 


PEGGY-ELISE  275 

Mary,  rendered  speechless  for  the  moment  by 
Peggy's  unguessed  presence  in  the  room,  could 
not  answer. 

"  Who  is  it  —  who  is  it !  "  the  girl  begged,  in  a 
dry  voice. 

"Giles  Winthrop,"  Mary  faltered.  "They 
operated  last  night  —  you  heard  the  conversa- 
tion." She  paused.  "  They  tried  to  get  you, 
here,  this  morning,  but  —  they  had  my  number 
wrong  — " 

Peggy  stared  at  her,  with  anguished  eyes,  until 
Mary  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  went  and 
put  her  arms  around  her;  but  the  girl  gently 
pushed  her  away,  and  went  to  her  room. 

When  Mary  went  up,  later,  to  take  her  a  bite 
of  supper,  she  lifted  a  grief-changed,  dry-eyed 
face  to  her. 

"  It  has  happened  to  me  twice," —  her  voice 
quivered  with  pain  — "  I  was  too  late  to  see  my 
father  —  too." 

Mary  regarded  her  with  deep  sympathy,  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  said : 

"  Eat  something,  dear,  if  you  can." 

"It  is  so  good  of  you —  but  food — "  She 
shook  her  head. 

The  morning  papers  gave  a  column  to  Giles 
Winthrop's  death ;  among  other  matters,  it  men- 
tioned his  genius  for  ferreting  out  fine  singers, 
of  whom  the  latest  was  Mademoiselle  Lascelles, 


276  PEGGY-ELISE 

whose  recent  performance  of  Mimi,  etc.  It  men- 
tioned, also,  that  except  for  bequests  to  two 
elderly  maiden  aunts,  his  large  fortune  was  to 
be  used  for  the  care  of  a  number  of  orphans 
in  each  of  the  war-stricken  countries.  Tears 
sprang,  relievingly,  to  Peggy's  eyes  as  she  read 
it. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  Venable  dropped  in. 

"  Put  on  your  hat,  dear,  and  come  out  with 
me  for  a  walk,"  he  suggested  tenderly.  "  I  know 
how  badly  you  must  feel,  but  it 's  a  beautiful  day 
and  you  ought  to  be  out  in  it  —  it  will  do  you 
good." 

"  You  will  not  mind  if  I  do  not  talk?  I  am 
not  a  gay  companion,  to-day,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
filling. 

He  smiled,  with  understanding. 

They  walked  down  Washington  Place  to  the 
Square,  round  the  south  side  and  up  University 
Place,  in  silence.  It  seemed  to  Peggy  that  she 
drew  strength  just  from  Venable's  quiet  presence 
there  beside  her;  in  his  arms,  she  had  never  felt 
so  close  to  him.  Suddenly,  it  came  to  her  —  a 
little  bewilderingly  —  as  a  familiar  idea  will, 
when  it  ceases  to  be  an  idea  and  becomes  a  live 
fact  —  that  she  could  bear  any  loss  except  that 
of  the  humorous-mouthed,  handsome  man  at  her 
side.  With  a  loving  glance,  she  swept  him  from 
head  to  foot;  something  in  his  stride,  in  the  set 


PEGGY-ELISE  277 

of  his  head,  the  tilt  of  his  chin,  caught  her  at- 
tention ;  she  wondered  if  his  work  had  been  going 
specially  well,  or  if  he  had  had  some  good  news 
that  he  had  refrained  from  mentioning,  out  of 
consideration  for  her.  They  were  crossing  the 
Mews,  at  the  moment.  Feodor  Sierzycki,  com- 
ing out  of  his  studio,  hailed  Venable. 

"  They  tell  me  you  are  going  to  the  front  —  is 
that  right?  "  he  inquired,  his  black  eyes  burning 
with  their  perpetual  sombre  glow. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  Peggy's  ears;  the 
street  began  to  whirl ;  she  waited,  breathless,  for 
Venable's  reply. 

"  Yes."  There  was  a  note  of  suppressed  exul- 
tation in  his  voice.  "  If  war 's  declared,  I  'm  go- 
ing into  the  army  —  if  it  isn't,  I  shall  join  the 
American  Ambulance." 

Peggy  did  not  hear  Sierzyski's  reply ;  she  was 
aware,  after  what  seemed  ages,  that  he  was  gone, 
and  that  she  and  Venable  were  standing  alone  on 
the  pavement. 

"  You  are  going,  Gilbert  —  you  — "  She  could 
not  finish ;  only  one  thought  was  in  her  mind  — 
one  terrible  thought :  she  had  lost  her  father  and 
her  friend;  now,  she  was  to  lose  the  man  she 
loved. 

Venable  leaned  down  to  catch  what  she  said. 

"  What,  dear?  " 

She  gazed  at  him  in  mute  anguish. 


278  PEGGY-ELISE 

He  looked  at  her  tragic  face,  then  took  her  by 
the  arm,  and  turned  back  toward  his  studio. 
Inside,  he  put  her  in  a  chair,  and  brought  her  a 
glass  of  sherry.  When  she  seemed  more  herself, 
he  sat  down  opposite  her  and  took  her  hands 
in  his. 

"  You  wanted  me  to  go,  Peggy  —  did  n't 
you?" 

"  Yes."  She  spoke  in  the  brave,  tired  voice  of 
one  physically  spent  with  sorrow,  but  strong  in 
spirit.  "  I  am  glad/' —  she  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  her  suffering.  "  When  did  you  decide?  " 

"  The  first  time  you  posed  for  me,  for  the  new 
Victory." 

"  So  long  ago !  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
before?  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  spare  you,  as  long  as  I 
could." 

"  But  you  knew  it  would  make  me  —  happy," 
she  faltered.  "  I  urged  you  — " 

"  I  knew  it  would  half  kill  you !  " 

She  caught  her  breath ;  her  eyes  fluttered  shut 
and  then  quickly  open. 

"  It  was  —  the  thing  —  I  wanted,"  she  man- 
aged to  say. 

"It  was  the  one  thing  in  the  world  you  did  n't 
want !  "  he  asserted  firmly,  holding  the  hands  she 
tried  to  release.  "  You  wranted  me  to  want  to  go, 
because  you  can't  or  you  won't  let  yourself  love 


PEGGY-ELISE  279 

me,  it  seems,  until  I  measure  up  to  a  certain 
standard.  You  're  such  a  stubborn  little  idealist 
that  you  don't  get  any  pleasure  out  of  life !  " 

"  It  is  my  nature,"  she  said  wearily.  "  What 
can  I  do? '' 

"  Ah,  Peggy,  Peggy !  " —  he  shook  his  head  — 
"  You  have  so  much  wisdom  for  others  and  so 
little  for  yourself.  .  .  .  When  I  said  it  was  my 
nature  to  be  selfish,  you  told  me  that  was  only 
one  of  my  natures;  what  about  you?  Are  you 
always  going  to  crush  the  warm,  human  side  of 
you?  " 

"  When  are  you  going?  "  she  asked,  heedless  of 
his  question. 

"  As  soon  as  it  can  be  arranged." 

From  then  until  the  night  before  he  left  for 
camp,  Peggy  waited  for  him  to  broach  the  sub- 
ject uppermost  in  her  thoughts  —  and  formerly 
in  his ;  they  met  often,  but  though  he  spoke  some- 
times of  the  coming  separation,  he  did  not  men- 
tion marriage.  Day  and  night,  she  variously 
analyzed  his  silence.  She  grew  thin  and  wan 
from  loss  of  sleep;  food  choked  her.  All  her 
old  arguments  against  marrying  him  were  for- 
gotten in  the  new  fear  that  he  no  longer  wanted 
her  to.  Her  love  for  him,  her  longing  to  slip 
her  arms  around  his  brown  throat  and  be  held 
in  his  sudden  tight  clasp,  grew  with  the  mo- 
ments. 


280  PEGGY-ELISE 

Throughout  their  last  dinner,  together,  she 
kept  her  eyes  lowered,  lest  he  see  the  hungering 
adoration  in  them ;  when  she  could,  she  stole  un- 
observed glances  at  him.  Once,  the  terrible  fear 
surged  over  her  that  she  might  never  see  him 
again. 

The  strain  of  the  past  weeks  had  stretched  her 
nerves  taut;  the  meal  was  an  endless  ordeal. 
Around  them  there  was  nothing  but  war-talk; 
friends  stopped  at  their  table  to  say  good-by  to 
Venable.  When  they  were  half-way  through 
their  salad,  her  fork  clattered  against  her  plate. 

"  Let  us  —  go  over  to  the  studio,"  she  begged. 
"  I  can't  stay  here  —  any  longer!  " 

As  they  entered  the  dark  workroom,  Venable 
drew  her  to  him;  for  a  long  time,  he  held  her 
close,  feeling  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  against 
his  breast ;  once,  his  arms  tightened  convulsively 
about  her,  but  relaxed  instantly ;  then  he  stooped 
and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  with  great  ten- 
derness. A  breath,  that  was  like  a  sob,  shook 
her  at  the  touch  of  his  lips.  He  grew  tense,  then 
with  trembling  arms  put  her  away  from  him 
and  struck  a  match.  She  sank  back  limply 
against  the  wall. 

When  he  had  lighted  the  lamp,  he  said,  with- 
out looking  at  her : 

"  Come  and  see  what  I  've  done  with  the  Vic- 


PEGGY-ELISE  281 

tory  —  I  've  been  working  on  it  this  afternoon." 

Peggy  moved  unsteadily  across  the  room;  it 
had  been  stripped  of  all  Venable's  belongings, 
except  the  Victory  —  Feodor  Sierzycki  was  to 
make  a  plaster  cast  of  it,  later  —  and  she  fore- 
tasted the  ghastly  loneliness  that  comes  to  one 
at  sight  of  a  dear  friend's  deserted  quarters. 
She  had  no  tears  to  ease  her  agony, —  within,  she 
was  an  arid,  stony,  scorched  wilderness,  in  which 
life  withered. 

"It  is  magnificent,"  she  said,  in  a  spiritless 
voice,  gazing  at  the  figure  with  apathetic  eyes. 

Venable  slipped  a  supporting  arm  around  her 
slim  shoulders ;  she  leaned  against  his  side,  rest- 
ing her  head  on  his  arm.  He  looked  down,  and 
saw  that  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  her  lovely 
lips  parted  in  a  kind  of  rapture. 

"  Dear !  "  he  breathed,  "  dearest !  "  and  bent 
his  face  close  to  hers.  There  was  not  a  flicker  of 
resistance.  He  drew  away  from  her,  bruskly. 
One  of  her  hands  fluttered  appealingly  toward 
him. 

"  Peggy !  " —  his  voice  was  harsh  with  feeling 
— •"  don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me  than  it  is  — 
you  don't  understand!  It  isn't  easy  to  go 
through  these  last  hours,  so  that  neither  of  us 
will  have  anything  to  —  regret,  in  the  coming 
months  —  with  whatever  they  may  bring.  If  I 


282  PEGGY-ELISE 

could  ask  you  to  marry  me,  it  would  be  different ; 
but  under  the  circumstances,  I  can't  —  I 
would  n't  — " 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  her  cheeks  suddenly 
flushed.  "  You  may  never  come  back  — " 

"  Peggy  —  if  I  could  be  sure  of  that,  I  'm 
afraid  I  would  n't  give  you  time  to  change  your 
mind!  What  prevents  me  is  the  dread  that  I 
may  come  back  —  come  back  —  blind  or  horribly 
crippled  —  so  that  the  only  thing  I  could  do 
would  be  to  give  you  your  freedom  —  or  live  with 
you,  and  go  mad  under  the  intolerable  feeling 
that  you  stuck  to  me  out  of  pity !  I  could  n't  en- 
dure it !  "  His  vanity,  his  old  consideration  for 
himself,  still  lay  uppermost. 

Peggy  turned  soft,  wistful  eyes  upon  him. 

"  But  love  knows  nothing  of  pity,  dear !  It 
knows  only  —  love!  If  I  were  to  be  hurt  — 
maimed  —  would  you  want  to  leave  me?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  No  —  certainly  not  —  but  you  might  want  to 
free  me." 

"  Yes  —  you  are  right  —  I  would  free  you  at 
once/'  she  said,  in  a  dead  voice. 

"  I  suppose  that  sounded  awfully  selfish  — " 

Peggy  was  silent. 

"  Will  you  take  me  home?  "  she  requested,  at 
last. 

He  stared  at  her,  incredulous. 


PEGGY-ELISE  283 

"  You  mean  we  are  to  part  like  this?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  would  let  ine  go  away  from  you  —  like 
this  —  perhaps  forever  —  just  because  I  said  a 
little  thing  like  that?  " 

"  It  was  not  a  little  thing." 

"But,  my  God!  —  you  don't  suppose,  really, 
that  I  'd  desert  you,  if  you  were  injured  —  do 
you?  I  said  what  I  did,  offhand  —  I  wasn't 
thinking.  It 's  too  silly !  " 

"  That  is  just  it;  the  truth  comes  out  when  one 
is  not  thinking." 

He  uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  annoyance. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  please  you  at  all, 
Peggy-Elise  —  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  go  away  feeling 
that  you  like  me  a  little.  Are  you  ready?  " 

"  It  is  because  I  —  because  I  love  you  too 
much  — "  she  explained  brokenly.  "  Some  day 
—  perhaps  —  you  will  understand  — " 

"  You  are  in  love  with  an  impossibly  ideal  per- 
son —  I  understand  that! " 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
ghastly  white  and  looked  very  ill.  She  swayed ; 
he  sprang  forward  to  steady  her,  just  in  time  to 
catch  her  limp  body  in  his  arms ;  she  had  fainted. 

She  was  so  long  coming  to,  that  he  finally  tele- 
phoned, in  alarm,  for  a  doctor.  The  doctor 
ordered  her  put  to  bed. 

"  Looks  to  me  like  a  nervous  breakdown,"  he 


284  PEGGY-ELISE 

said,  replacing  his  thermometer  in  its  case. 
"  Has  she  been  under  a  strain?  " 

"  Yes."  Venable  was  inwardly  cursing  him- 
self for  his  selfishness  in  having  forgotten  it  for 
a  moment.  "  Good  Lord !  I  ought  to  have  real- 
ized !  "  he  thought. 

Mary  Hallam  took  charge  of  Peggy.  In  pur- 
suance of  the  doctor's  order  that  she  was  to  be 
kept  absolutely  quiet,  she  grudgingly  permitted 
Venable  five  minutes  in  which  to  say  good-by. 
He  said  it  to  a  confused,  limp  Peggy,  who  ap- 
peared not  to  sense  what  it  meant.  There  was 
not  a  quiver  of  response  in  her  cold  lips  that  he 
pressed  in  such  passionate  contrition,  such  hun- 
gry yearning,  for  an  answering  pressure  that  he 
might  construe  as  forgiveness.  He  carried  one 
of  her  pulseless  hands  to  his  lips,  and  released  it 
in  despair.  He  thought  she  smiled,  once,  but  it 
could  have  been  a  sudden  flare  of  candle-flame 
lighting  her  face.  And  with  this  dubious  com- 
fort, he  was  compelled  to  leave  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PEGGY  lay  in  a  kind  of  torpor  for  several 
days,  refusing  food  and  rarely  speaking,  ex- 
cept to  say  that  her  head  ached,  that  all  of  her 
ached.  By  the  end  of  a  week,  she  got  up,  a  little 
shaky,  but  otherwise  fairly  well.  The  first  thing 
she  did  was  to  read  the  letters  Venable  had  writ- 
ten her  from  camp;  she  had  been  too  listless  to 
open  them  before.  He  was  not  a  letter-writer  — 
certainly  not  a  love-letter  writer;  still,  he  man- 
aged to  convey  to  Peggy  something  of  his  misery. 
In  her  suffering,  they  brought  her  a  kind  of 
lethal  comfort,  the  effect  of  wrhich  was  certain 
to  wear  off,  however,  with  the  return  of  vitality 
to  her  nerves  and  brain. 

As  soon  as  she  was  able,  she  made  arrange- 
ments for  her  passage  to  France ;  she  planned  to 
remain  there  until  her  work  called  her  back. 

The  Metropolitan's  New  York  season  had 
closed;  the  company  was  going  to  Boston  for  a 
week,  and  Peggy  went  with  it,  against  the  doc- 
tor's orders  —  he  had  prescribed  absolute  rest. 
She  called  Anne  up,  before  she  left,  to  tell  her 
she  was  going ;  also,  that  she  had  secured  accom- 


286  PEGGY-ELISE 

modations  on  a  Fabre  Line  boat,  sailing  "  some- 
time in  June."  Anne  uttered  a  wail  over  the 
wire.  Then  she  cried  excitedly : 

"  Guess  what,  Peggy !  Daddy 's  come  back, 
and  we  're  moving  to  the  country  —  to-morrow ! 
Out  to  Montvale.  We  're  all  packed  up  —  wait 
a  minute !  "  she  said,  turning  to  tell  some  one  in 
the  room  when  her  cousin  was  to  sail  for 
France  — "  Mother  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

Peggy  was  amazed  by  her  aunt's  affability,  her 
solicitude.  She  wanted  her,  it  transpired,  to 
come  out  and  stay  with  them,  until  she  sailed; 
the  change  of  air,  rest,  etc.,  etc.  Also,  they 
would  love  to  have  her  with  them.  Peggy  ac- 
cepted, full  of  speculation.  When  she  had  last 
seen  her  uncle,  three  weeks  previously,  he  had 
had  two  months'  work  to  do  on  his  book,  and  did 
not  intend  to  return  to  his  family  until  it  was 
accepted.  She  wondered  what  could  have  hap- 
pened. 

What  had  happened,  was  this.  In  the  first 
place,  Anne's  visit  to  him  had  shattered  any  be- 
lief that  the  child  was  happy  without  him.  She 
had  whirled  in  on  him,  driving  away  at  his 
book,  her  blue  eyes  black  with  joy,  her  thinned 
cheeks  vivid,  clear  crimson,  her  voice  almost  a 
sob  in  the  rapture  of  seeing  him.  She  had 
climbed  up  on  his  lap  and  hugged  him  and 
kissed  him  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  had  curled 


PEGGY-ELISE  287 

up  in  his  arms,  with  a  sigh  of  utter  satisfaction. 

He  had  been  so  shaken  by  the  child's  emotion 
that  he  could  only  strain  her  to  him,  in  silence. 
After  her  first  excitement  had  worn  off,  her 
tongue  had  begun  to  rattle.  In  telling  her  father 
the  things  that  had  happened  to  her,  she  uncon- 
sciously disclosed  much  of  the  state  of  her 
mother's  affairs.  Here  and  there,  he  caught 
glimpses  of  his  wife's  extravagance.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  amazing  fact  that  she  was  doing  her 
own  marketing,  told  quite  innocently  as  an  im- 
portant detail  in  Anne's  account  of  how  she  had 
slipped  out,  that  morning,  and  run  away  to 
him.  In  the  same  wholly  unintentional  fash- 
ion, she  revealed  Isabelle's  intimacy  with  Mrs. 
Eversham.  He  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  name 
—  he  thought  he  had  heard  it,  sometime,  in  an 
unpleasant  connection. 

Thus  it  went,  until  he  had  the  whole  disquiet- 
ing picture. 

He  took  Anne  back  to  the  city,  in  the  evening, 
and  left  her  at  the  door.  He  was  tempted  to  go 
up,  and  see  his  wife  and  family,  but  was  afraid 
that  what  he  might  learn  would  destroy  his  peace 
of  mind  and  wrench  him  away  from  his  book. 
He  asked  for  only  a  month  more  of  freedom,  he 
told  himself  in  justification;  then  he  would  go 
back  and  resume  the  burden  for  the  rest  of  his 
life. 


288  PEGGY-ELISE 

But  back  in  Montvale,  anxiety  dogged  him. 
Either  through  ignorance  or  impotence,  their 
mother  was  permitting  Isabelle  and  Allyn  to 
travel  at  their  own  gait;  he  felt  that  they  were 
in  very  serious  danger.  He  pictured  them,  in 
their  hot,  unprotected  youth,  victimized  and  in 
disgrace.  Walking  the  floor,  hour  after  hour, 
he  realized  that  whatever  right  he  had  had  to 
leave  his  wife  to  her  whims,  he  had  had  none  to 
abandon  his  children  —  it  amounted  to  that ;  no 
fame  on  earth  could  obliterate  the  shame  of  their 
ruined  lives.  In  the  last  analysis,  he  alone 
would  be  responsible  —  had  he  not  chosen  their 
mother?  And,  since  he  had  not  chosen  wisely, 
he  should  have  done  his  utmost  to  protect  the 
children  from  the  consequences.  That  was  what 
Peggy  had  meant,  the  time  she  had  said  he  could 
never  be  free  —  The  bonds  of  parenthood  were 
forged  of  imperishable  stuff  —  they  began  at  the 
cradle  and  ended  at  the  grave. 

In  the  ensuing  days  he  tried  to  persuade  him- 
self there  was  no  immediate  danger;  that  a 
month,  more  or  less,  would  not  matter.  It  was 
no  use.  By  the  end  of  the  week  he  had  deter- 
mined to  sacrifice  his  book,  if  need  be,  to  the  wel- 
fare of  his  children.  He  locked  up  the  little 
Montvale  studio,  with  a  heavy  heart;  the  pre- 
cious hermit  days  were  over. 

He  arrived  at  the  hotel  about  half-past  nine 


PEGGY-ELISE  2S9 

in  the  evening,  and  sent  up  word  that  he  wished 
to  see  Mrs.  Austen.  She  was  not  at  home;  he 
stood  debating  what  he  should  do. 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  Mr.  Austen? "  the 
clerk  inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  your  little  girl  wants  you  to  come  up  — 
she 's  a  great  little  girl,"  he  added,  smiling. 

Anne  was  alone  —  the  maid  was  out,  as  usual ; 
Mrs.  Austen  was  upstairs  in  the  Glovers'  apart- 
ment, playing  cards.  Anne  wanted  to  call  her, 
but  her  father  said  he  would  wait  till  she  came. 
How  did  it  happen  Anne  was  alone?  Anne 
opened  her  eyes,  wide.  She  said  she  was  often 
alone  —  she  did  n't  mind  —  she  read.  She 
nodded  toward  the  open  book  on  the  table. 

"Where  are  Allyn  and  Isabelle?"  he  asked, 
at  length. 

She  shrugged  her  ignorance  of  their  where- 
abouts. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Anne,  sleepy  but  protesting, 
went  to  bed.  Her  father  helped  to  undress  her, 
tucked  her  in,  and  read  her  to  sleep,  after  assur^ 
ing  her  that  she  would  see  him,  next  day.  Her 
happy  kiss  thrilled  him. 

Twelve  —  one  o'clock  —  came,  but  no  family. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  one,  gay  good-nights 
sounded  outside  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Austen  hur- 
ried in.  Her  husband  stood  by  the  mantel- 


290  PEGGY-ELISE 

piece,  facing  the  door.  When  she  caught  sight 
of  him,  she  stopped  short,  and  stared ;  the  color 
rushed  out  of  her  face  and  in  again ;  then,  with  a 
heroic  attempt  at  her  old  flippancy,  she  said : 

"  Humph !  —  you  're  rather  a  stranger !  When 
did  you  arrive?  " 

"  Considerably  earlier  than  you,"  he  replied, 
nettled  by  her  tone.  "  Is  this  the  time  you  usu- 
ally get  in?" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  Is  that  your  affair?  " 

"Yes  — I  think  it's  my  affair,"  he  retorted 
with  ill-advised  heat,  "when  you  go  out,  night 
after  night,  and  leave  my  child  alone  till  all 
hours!" 

She  laughed  mockingly,  with  a  bitter  twist  of 
her  handsome  mouth. 

"  I  love  that !  You  go  away  for  months,  on 
your  own  sweet  little  business,  and  leave  us  to 
our  fate  —  and  then  reproach  me  with  neglect! 
Why  did  n't  you  take  your  precious  Anne  with 
you?  "  she  taunted. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  could  n't  have 
done  my  work  with  her  there !  " 

"  '  Work ' !    You  make  me  laugh !  " 

"You're  welcome  to  construe  my  absence  as 
you  please." 

"  I  know  you  too  well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with 


PEGGY-ELISE  291 

intense  bitterness,  "  to  believe  that  you  've 
spent  all  these  months  working  chastely  on  a 
book!" 

"  Nevertheless,  it 's  what  I  've  been  doing." 
He  turned  away,  hopelessly.  Out  in  the  soli- 
tude of  Montvale,  he  had  planned  to  take  more 
than  his  share  of  blame  for  the  pass  to  which, 
he  had  reason  to  suspect,  they  had  come;  but 
now,  in  his  wife's  antagonistic  presence,  he 
shrank  from  humiliating  himself ;  she  would  only 
mock  him  —  her  scornful  manner  had  already 
insidiously  poisoned  his  new  courage.  He  drew 
out  his  watch. 

"  It 's  pretty  late  for  Allyn  and  Isabelle  to  be 
out,  is  n't  it?  " 

A  harassed  expression  banished  something  of 
the  air  of  bravado  from  Mrs.  Austen's  face. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Isabelle 's  with  Mrs.  Ever- 
sham  —  I  suppose ;  Allyn  's  probably  at  the  the- 
ater —  they  '11  be  in  soon.  They  're  not  usually 
as  late  as  this." 

The  bell  rang.  She  opened  the  door;  to  her 
amazement,  Mrs.  Eversham  brushed  excitedly 
past  her. 

"  I  've  just  had  a  telephone  message  from  Jack 
Suffern,"  she  panted.  "  He  and  Isabelle  — " 
She  stopped,  at  sight  of  a  stranger. 


292  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  This  is  my  husband,  Mrs.  Eversham,"  Mrs. 
Austen  explained,  coldly.  "  What 's  the  matter 
with  Isabelle?  " 

She  frowned. 

"  Can't  I  see  you  alone,  for  a  moment?  " 

"Anything  that  concerns  our  daughter  is  as 
much  my  affair  as  my  wife's,"  Mr.  Austen  said 
sharply. 

Mrs.  Eversham  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
irresolute.  Finally  she  drew  an  impatient 
breath,  and  flung  out  her  jeweled  hands  in  a  ges- 
ture of  acquiescence. 

"  I  won't  waste  time  on  details,"  she  said  in  a 
hard,  light  voice.  "  Isabelle  and  Jack  went 
motoring,  it  seems  —  after  supper.  Jack  just 
telephoned  me  that  they  'd  had  a  breakdown,  and 
couldn't  get  back,  to-night.  He  said  he  had 
taken  Isabelle  to  a  farmhouse — "  She  paused. 
"  That 's  a  lie  —  of  course."  A  sneer  dragged 
down  the  corners  of  her  cynical  mouth.  "  He 
has  a  place,  out  in  Westchester  County  —  and 
that 's  probably  where  they  are." 

"  Good  God ! "  Mr.  Austen  gasped,  his  face 
ashen.  "  Where  is  this  place?  "  He  reached  for 
his  hat. 

The  woman  shook  her  head,  rapidly. 

"  It  takes  nearly  an  hour  to  get  there,  and 
then," —  she  hesitated  — "  it  might  be  — " 


293 

He  nodded. 

"  What 's  the  'phone  number?  " 

"  Westchester  —  73." 

He  was  already  at  the  telephone. 

"  Westchester  —  73 !  Westchester  —  73 !"  he 
thundered,  in  reply  to  the  girl's  drawling, 
"  What  number  did  you  want?  " 

For  ten  minutes,  the  throbbing  silence  in  the 
room  was  broken  only  by  echoes  from  the  infre- 
quent, early-morning  traffic  in  the  street  below, 
and  by  the  empty  ticking  of  a  silly  little  French 
clock  on  the  mantel.  All  ears  strained  at  the 
crackle  of  a  voice  in  the  receiver. 

"  They  don't  answer? "  Mr.  Austen  shouted, 
aghast ;  "  they  've  got  to  answer !  Try  again !  " 

Another  five  minutes  lagged  past.  Then  he 
beckoned  imperatively  to  Mrs.  Eversham,  and 
thrust  the  receiver  into  her  hand.  She  flashed 
him  a  furtive  glance  of  admiration. 

"Hello!"  she  called:  "Is  that  you,  Jack? 
Yes  — Polly." 

Mr.  Austen  took  the  receiver  from  her. 

"  Mr.  Suffern,"  he  said  in  steely  tones,  "  this  is 
Miss  Austen's  father,  speaking  .  .  .  yes,  her 
father.  I  want  my  daughter  here  as  fast  as  you 
can  bring  her.  If  she  isn't  back,  within  an 
hour,  I  '11  notify  the  police." 

The  listening  women  caught  a  word,  now  and 


294  PEGGY-ELISE 

then,  of  an  indignant  protest  coming  over  the 
wire  — "  car  " — "  breakdown  " — "  impossible." 
Mr.  Austen  cut  it  short. 

"  That 's  not  my  concern !  You  took  her  there 
—  now  you  bring  her  back !  "  He  snapped  the 
receiver  onto  the  hook.  "  Where  did  Isabelle 
meet  this  man?  "  he  asked,  rising. 

"  Through  Mrs.  Eversham."  Mrs.  Austen 
colored  as  she  made  the  admission.  "I  tried 
to—". 

"  He 's  scarcely  the  sort  of  man  to  introduce 
to  a  young  girl,"  he  cut  in,  looking  sternly  at 
Mrs.  Eversham. 

A  contemptuous  smile  curled  her  lip. 

"  It  would  have  been  rather  hard  to  avoid  it. 
Isabelle  was»in  my  apartment,  day  and  night  — 
the  poor  child  seemed  to  have  nowhere  else  to 
go."  She  looked  defiantly  at  Mrs.  Austen.  "  I 
kept  her  under  my  eye,  as  much  as  I  could,  but 
you  really  could  n't  expect  me  to  chaperone  her 
every  minute.  Besides," — her  eyelids  drooped 
insolently  — "  I  have  n't  that  protective  parental 
feeling." 

Mr.  Austen  flushed.  After  a  moment's 
thought,  he  said: 

"  You  are  right,  of  course  —  and  my  wife  and 
I  both  want  to  thank  you  for  your  help,  to-night." 
He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  It 's  late  —  so  we 
won't  keep  you  any  longer." 


PEGGY-ELISE  295 

She  fixed  him  with  a  pair  of  amused  eyes ;  then 
turned  on  her  heel  and  went  to  the  door.  He 
opened  it  and  bowed  as  she  passed,  her  head 
high,  her  skirts  drawn  aside. 

For  a  half  hour,  Mr.  Austen  paced  the  floor; 
his  wife  stood  by  the  window  —  alternately,  she 
looked  at  the  clock  or  peered  into  the  street  be- 
low. Twice,  cars  stopped  at  the  curb;  she 
watched,  tense,  while  people  stepped  out,  but 
Isabelle  was  not  among  them. 

As  the  clock  ticked  off  its  leisurely,  uncon- 
cerned seconds,  the  paralyzing  fear  crept  over 
her  that  what  had  befallen  other  girls  —  girls 
she  had  read  about  in  the  papers  —  might  al- 
ready have  befallen  Isabelle.  She  had  always 
thought  of  them,  somehow,  as  naturally  inclined 
to  be  bad  —  quite  as  much  sinning  as  sinned 
against. 

But  Isabelle  was  not  bad  —  she  had  simply 
been  allowed  too  much  freedom.  Mrs.  Austen 
stared  out  of  the  window;  in  a  sudden  agony 
of  realization  she  saw  that  selfish  absorption 
in  her  own  pleasures  had  brought  this  ter- 
rible thing  on  her  daughter.  She  tried,  feebly, 
to  justify  some  of  her  neglect  on  the  plea  that 
she  had  played  cards  to  help  herself  out  of  her 
desperate  financial  predicament;  but,  then,  it 
had  been  her  own  criminal  extravagance  that  had 
gotten  her  into  it.  If  Isabelle —  A  nervous 


396  PEGGY-ELISE 

chill  convulsed  her.  Her  frantic  voice  shattered 
the  stillness. 

"  She  ought  to  be  here,  by  now !  " 

"  I  would  n't  worry  —  I  think  she 's  safe,''  her 
husband  reassured  her.  "  I  interfered  in  time  — 
she  '11  be  here  at  any  minute."  But  he  spoke 
with  a  conviction  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  It 's  fully  an  hour  since  you  'phoned !  You 
ought  to  have  found  out  where  she  was,  and  gone 
after  her ! " 

"  What  good  would  that  have  done?  If  he 
didn't  intend  to  bring  her  back  he  certainly 
would  n't  have  dared  to  risk  staying  there." 

"  I  forbade  Isabelle  to  go  with  Mrs.  Eversham, 
when  I  found  out  her  reputation !  "  She  spoke 
in  a  distracted  voice ;  her  white  face  twitched. 

"  Well  —  when  you  live  in  an  apartment  house, 
it 's  almost  impossible  to  keep  children  from 
getting  in  with  the  wrong  people." 

She  had  expected  him  to  reproach  her,  had 
been  ready  for  it;  instead,  he  had  been  reason- 
able, lenient.  Her  old  ungovernable,  hampering 
pride  suddenly  gave  way. 

"  Oh,  Bob," —  there  was  a  hysterical  catch  in 
her  voice  — "  I  wish  we  were  out  of  it  all  —  I  'm 
so  sick  of  it !  —  I  'm  so  sick  of  it !  " 

He  went  over  and  put  his  arm  around  her 
shoulders;  she  leaned  against  him,  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes.  Presently,  he  said : 


PEGGY-ELISE  297 

"  You  have  this  place  on  a  lease,  I  suppose?  " 

She  nodded. 

"It  would  have  about  —  seven  months  to 
run?  " 

"  Yes." 

Neither  of  them  had  been  aware  that  an  auto- 
mobile had  stopped  below,  delivered  a  passenger, 
and  darted  away,  so  that  they  started  violently, 
their  hearts  pounding,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 

Mr.  Austen  sprang  to  the  door;  his  wife  fol- 
lowed, sick  with  suspense.  If  it  should  not  be 
Isabelle  — !  Then  she  sank,  shaking,  into  a 
chair,  as  she  heard  her  daughter's  voice. 

The  girl  came  in,  sobbing  wildly.  Her  father 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  head  to  his 
breast ;  she  clung  to  him  in  a  frenzy  of  relief. 

"Oh,  Papa!"  she  cried;  "—if  you  hadn't 
telephoned  — ! " 

His  arms  closed  tightly  about  her,  his  face 
stern,  terrible. 

"  Are  you  — ?  "  Her  mother  put  the  vital 
question,  in  a  tense  voice. 

Isabelle  nodded. 

"But  if  Papa—"  She  broke  into  a  fresh 
storm  of  weeping. 

"  I  think  perhaps  you  'd  better  go  to  bed,  now, 
dear,"  Mr.  Austen  said,  with  infinite  tenderness. 

She  lifted  her  pretty,  tear-blotched  face  to  his 


298  PEGGY-ELISE 

to  be  kissed.     He  thrilled  as  he  touched  her  trem- 
bling young  lips. 

"  Try  not  to  think  any  more  about  it  to-night 
—  you  're  all  right,  now." 

Three   hours   later,    the   elevator-boy    helped 
Allyn  into  the  darkened  apartment.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHEN  Mr.  Austen  had  learned  that  his 
wife  had  gone  through  all  her  money, 
that  she  had  only  a  trifle  over  a  thousand  dollars 
left,  he  had  sat  for  a  long  time,  thinking.  He 
had  been  shocked,  disgusted,  at  first;  but,  by  de- 
grees, he  saw  that  perhaps  this  experience  was 
what  she  had  needed. 

"  The  first  thing  to  do,"  he  had  said,  "  is  to  get 
the  children  away  from  here." 

Mrs.  Austen  had  acquiesced,  fervently. 

"We  can  sublet  this  place  —  there  won't  be 
any  trouble  about  that.  I  figure  that  we  have 
between  us  —  about  —  $1700  —  I  guess  I  have 
nearer  eight  than  seven  hundred  left  out  of 
my  fifteen  " —  he  was  referring  to  the  money  he 
had  received,  the  previous  November,  for  his 
scenario,  "  Labor."  "  There  's  no  absolute  cer- 
tainty of  having  any  more,  for  quite  a  while  — 
I  'm  going  to  finish  this  book  —  it 's  sure  to  sell 
—  and  I  won't  have  time  to  do  any  pot-boiling ; 
so  we  '11  have  to  make  what  money  we  have  go  a 
good  way." 

His  wife  had  shown  eagerness  to  agree  with 
him. 


300  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  It  would  be  a  little  embarrassing,  I  think, 
to  go  back  to  Flushing  and  haye  to  live  on  a 
reduced  scale.  Besides,  the  Donnellys  were  a 
bad  influence  for  the  children."  His  lips  had  set 
in  a  hard  line  at  mention  of  them. 

"  I  don't  want  to  ever  see  Flushing  again ! ' 

Mr.  Austen  had  looked  at  her,  and  debated. 

"  There 's  a  place  up  in  Montvale,"  he  said,  at 
length,  "  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  my 
studio,  a  beautiful  old  place  —  nine  rooms,  lots 
of  ground  —  it  may  lack  a  few  conveniences,  but 
I  think  it  would  do.  It  rents  for  forty-five  dol- 
lars a  month.  I  wonder  how  you  'd  like  it?  " 

"  I  'd  like  any  place,"  she  exclaimed,  "  where 
the  children  would  be  safe  and  I  could  have 
peace !  And  you  'd  have  your  studio  all  to  your- 
self, to  work  in,  and  — "  she  hesitated,  the  color 
rushing  into  her  cheeks — "you  could  be  home 
with  us,  too." 

A  long  look  had  passed  between  them.  He 
had  taken  her  hand  and  stood  gazing  down  at 
it: 

"  Then  we  '11  go  to  Montvale." 

It  was  Peggy's  last  night  in  America;  on  the 
morrow,  she  was  to  sail  for  France.  In  response 
to  her  aunt's  invitation,  she  had  spent  her  last 
two  weeks  with  the  Austen  family,  in  their  new 
home  at  Montvale.  She  had  come  to  them  a  lit- 


PEGGY-ELISE  301 

tie  timidly,  a  little  dubiously  —  it  was  impos- 
sible, in  view  of  Mrs.  Austen's  treatment  of  her 
during  the  year,  not  to  be  a  shade  distrustful  of 
her  new  cordiality ;  but  when  the  latter  had  met 
her  at  the  station,  and  kissed  her  with  unaffected 
warmth,  the  girl's  uneasiness  had  vanished. 
She  had  marveled  at  the  change :  her  aunt  looked 
years  younger;  the  old,  querulous,  cynical  ex- 
pression had  almost  been  replaced  by  one  of 
happiness. 

They  were  in  the  kitchen,  now,  getting  the  din- 
ner things  out  of  the  way. 

"  Don't  bother  to  dry  those  dishes,  Isabelle ; 
they  were  rinsed  in  boiling  water  —  they  '11  drain 
dry.  I  'm  trying  all  sorts  of  lazy  ways,"  Mrs. 
Austen  laughed,  turning  to  Peggy,  "  now  that 
I  'm  playing  chief  cook  and  bottle-washer,  my- 
self." 

Her  niece  smiled  appreciatively. 

"  It  keeps  you  in  the  kitchen  a  great  deal,  when 
you  have  not  a  servant." 

Her  aunt  raised  her  shoulders  in  the  old  char- 
acteristic gesture,  but  she  smiled  as  she  did  it. 

"  We  all  have  to  do  our  '  bit,'  now.  Every- 
body 's  beginning  to  give  up  servants  —  you  've 
no  idea  the  difference  it  makes  in  the  bills !  Mrs. 
Olcott  —  next  door  —  lost  her  cook  just  before 
you  came;  she  went  to  work  in  a  munition  fac- 
tory. I  guess  we  're  through  here,  now," —  she 


302  PEGGY-ELISE 

glanced  around.  "  Oh  —  there 's  a  saucepan ! 
It  can  wait  till  morning."  She  whisked  off  her 
apron.  "  Come  on  out  on  the  porch." 

Allyn  and  Mr.  Austen,  with  Anne  on  his  lap, 
were  discussing  the  war,  when  the  rest  of  the 
family  joined  them.  Peggy  listened,  with  a  full 
heart.  She  was  thinking  how  different  this 
earnest  talk  was  from  the  careless  talk  she  had 
heard  that  day,  almost  a  year  ago,  when  she  had 
come  among  them  —  a  stranger.  .  .  . 

"  I  get  sick  every  time  I  realize  that  Allyn  has 
enlisted,"  Mrs.  Austen  said  to  Peggy,  in  a  low 
voice,  in  which  there  was  a  ring  of  anguish. 
"  Of  course,  I  'd  have  hated  him  not  to  want  to 
go  —  too,"  she  went  on,  her  blue  eyes  alight  with 
pride,  "  but  the  aviation  branch  of  it  is  so  ter- 
ribly— "  She  could  not  finish;  Peggy  turned 
away  from  the  ache  in  her  eyes. 

"  Gee!  Dad!  I  wish  you  were  in  it! "  Allyn 
exclaimed. 

His  father's  face  took  on  an  intense  sadness; 
he  stared,  unseeing,  at  the  far-away,  darkening 
hills. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  can't  go,  Daddy !  "  Anne 
cried,  almost  strangling  him  with  a  hug.  "  You 
and  I  are  doing  our  share,  here !  " 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  laugh !  My  beans  are 
four  inches  high !  You  did  n't  plant  those  beets 


PEGGY-ELISE  303 

for  me  to-day,  Allyn  Austen ! "  she  accused. 
Characteristically,  she  had  commandeered  the 
services  of  the  entire  family,  for  the  care  of  her 
"  war-garden." 

"  Do  it  to-morrow,  sis,"  Allyn  laughed,  salut- 
ing. 

"  Isabelle!  Don't  knit  any  more,"  her  mother 
commanded ;  "  you  '11  put  your  eyes  out  in  this 
light!" 

"  I  have  to  finish  this  to-night ;  they  're  sending 
aw-ay  the  box  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  then,  go  inside  and  work  where  you  can 
see." 

Isabelle  left  them. 

Presently,  patches  of  light  appeared  below 
the  shades  of  the  living-room  windows,  and 
struck  across  the  porch.  Inside,  Isabelle  was 
humming  softly.  A  silence  fell  upon  them  all. 
The  faint,  clear,  golden  afterglow  from  the  sun- 
set melted  into  the  deep  crystalline  blue  of  the 
summer  night  sky ;  the  stars  shone  out  with  sud- 
den brilliancy  all  over  the  heavens.  The  strid- 
ent grating  of  crickets  rose  from  the  grass, 
drowned  by  the  occasional,  long,  minor  bellow 
of  a  bull-frog.  A  mournful,  almost  human,  call 
shivered  through  the  night. 

"  There 's  that  screech-owl,  again,"  Mr.  Austen 
remarked. 

His  wife  shuddered. 


304  PEGGY-ELISE 

"  I  think  they  're  the  most  eerie  things  —  they 
sound  like  lost  souls." 

After  another  prolonged  silence,  she  said : 

"  Is  n't  this  the  sleepiest  place  you  were  ever 
in?  I  can't  keep  my  eyes  open  after  nightfall." 
She  yawned.  "Isn't  that  terrible?" 

"  You  get  up  very  early,"  Mr.  Austen  offered, 
in  explanation. 

"  Just  think !  By  this  time  to-morrow  night, 
Peggy  '11  be  'way  out  on  the  ocean ! "  Anne 
slipped  down  from  her  father's  lap,  and  went 
over  to  her  cousin.  "  Oh,  Peggy  —  I  wish  you 
were  n't  going !  "  she  said,  settling  herself  at  the 
girl's  feet  and  resting  her  head  against  her  knees. 
"  But  you  're  coming  back?  " 

"  I  hope  so,  ma  mie."  Peggy's  low  voice  was 
tremulous  with  emotion. 

Isabelle  called  out  from  the  living-room. 

"  Peggy,  come  on  in  and  sing  something  for 
us!" 

"  I  'in  afraid  I  cannot,  to-night,  dear  —  I  do 
not  feel  —  in  the  humor  to  sing." 

"Just  one  song  —  Peggy,"  she  urged. 

"  Then  it  will  have  to  be  a  duet."  She  went 
inside,  Anne  following.  Isabelle  was  heard  pro- 
testing, there  was  laughter;  then  they  began  to 
sing  the  "  Barcarolle  "  from  "  The  Tales  of  Hoff- 
mann." 

Mr.  Austen  settled  down  in  his  chair,  leaned 


PEGGY-ELISE  305 

back  his  head  and  closed  his  eyes;  his  wife 
stretched  out  comfortably  and  propped  up  her 
feet  on  a  wicker  tabouret ;  Allyn  leaned  forward, 
elbows  on  knees,  chin  in  hand.  He  hummed  the 
music  and  his  mother  joined  in. 

"  Your  voice  sounds  very  pretty,  to-night,"  Mr. 
Austen  said,  turning  to  her.  "  Why  don't  you 
ever  sing?  " 

Her  shoulders  lifted,  in  the  dark. 

"  I  can't  sing  —  Mary  had  the  only  voice  in  the 
family."  She  referred  to  Peggy's  mother. 

"  You  sing  very  well." 

When  they  had  finished  the  "  Nuit  d' Amour." 
they  sang  the  duet  from  "  Butterfly,"  and  then 
some  things  from  "  The  Persian  Garden."  Peggy 
sang  softly,  in  order  not  to  drown  Isabelle's  voice. 

"  Gee !  We  '11  miss  these  soirees  when  you  're 
gone,  Peggy,"  Allyn  said  regretfully,  as  the  girls 
came  out  on  the  porch. 

"Don't  you  think  my  voice  is  better,  since 
Peggy's  been  helping  me  with  it?"  Isabelle  in- 
quired generally.  She  turned  to  her  cousin :  "  I 
wish  you  were  going  to  be  here,  right  along." 

Peggy  smiled,  marveling.  The  marked  change 
in  her  cousin's  attitude  toward  her  baffled  her; 
something  Mrs.  Austen  had  said,  the  day  she  ar- 
rived, explained  it,  partially : 

"  I  've  lost  my  whole  family  —  Isabelle  and 
Allyn  have  gone  over,  body  and  soul,  to  their 


306  PEGGY-ELISE 

father."  She  had  spoken  with  her  old  flippancy, 
but  no  bitterness  tinged  it.  "  Isabelle  and  he 
are  getting  to  be  regular  cronies ! "  She  had 
laughed.  "  Has  he  told  you  that  she 's  learning 
to  do  his  typing?  Takes  care  of  his  correspond- 
ence —  it 's  killing !" 

Peggy  decided  it  was  probable  that  the  girl's 
new  association  with  her  father  was  responsible 
for  the  change. 

"  Oh-oo ! "  Mrs.  Austen  exclaimed,  stifling  a 
yawn  and  rising  stiffly  from  her  chair.  "  I  '11 
just  have  to  go  to  bed!  Come  along,  Anne." 

Anne  went  without  protest,  after  ardently  kiss- 
ing her  father  and  Peggy  good  night.  Presently, 
Isabelle  followed. 

"Well — "  Mr.  Austen  said,  at  length,  in  a 
meditative  tone,  " —  my  book  is  almost  finished." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  not  to  hear  the  end  of  it," 
Peggy  remarked.  "  I  will,  of  course,  when  it  is 
published,  but  —  I  am  so  interested !  " 

"  Did  I  show  you  the  letter  I  had,  to-day,  from 
Mr.  Hammond?  "  He  drew  some  papers  from  a 
pocket,  and  bent  over  into  the  light  to  look 
through  them.  "  Does  n't  seem  to  be  here."  He 
reached  into  another  pocket,  and  another. 
"  Humph !  "  he  said.  "  That 's  funny  —  I  partic- 
ularly meant  to  bring  it  up,  to  show  you,  but  I 
must  have  left  it  at  the  studio  —  it 's  the  finest 
letter  I  ?ve  ever  had  about  my  work,  and  it  means 


PEGGY-ELISE  307 

a  lot  —  coming  from  a  publisher  like  Hammond." 

"  I  would  love  to  see  it,"  Peggy  replied  eagerly. 
"  Could  n't  we  walk  over  to  the  studio  —  it  is  not 
far—?" 

"Would  you  —  aren't  you  too  tired?"  His 
face  was  boyishly  alight  with  pleasure.  "  I  'd 
really  like  very  much  to  have  you  see  it.  It  '11  be 
moonlight  in  a  few  minutes — ?  Will  you  join 
us,  Allyn?  " 

"  Nope  —  I  'm  going  to  turn  in  —  I  've  got 
the  sleep-bug,  too."  He  paused  in  front  of 
Peggy.  "  I  may  see  you  —  over  there  —  before 
long," — he  tried  to  keep  the  pride  out  of  his 
voice. 

"  You  expect  to  go  soon?  " 

"  Well  —  comparatively  speaking  —  I  have  n't 
begun  training,  yet,"  he  grinned,  "  but  I  ought  to 
get  over,  this  year." 

As  Peggy  and  her  uncle  left  the  macadamized 
road  and  turned  into  the  little  wood-path,  that 
was  a  short-cut  to  the  studio,  he  broke  the  silence 
that  had  held  them  since  they  had  left  the  house. 

"  Does  the  family  strike  you  as  being  happy?  " 

"  Very !  "    Peggy  said  it  heartily. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  after  a  pause,  "  that 's 
something, —  anyway." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  my  sacrifice  has  n't  been  alto- 
gether in  vain." 


308  PEGGY-ELISE 

"Are  you  not  happy,  then,  yourself,  my 
uncle?" 

"  '  Happy '?  No !  There 's  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion, of  course,  in  having  done  my  '  duty,'  and  it 
means  a  great  deal  to  have  the  children  closer  to 
me  —  but  — " 

They  moved  on,  for  a  little  way,  in  silence. 
The  path,  mottled  with  moonlight,  wound 
through  a  thin  growth  of  white  birches;  the 
woods  were  very  still;  the  only  sound  was  the 
faint  swish,  now  and  then,  of  Peggy's  skirts. 

"  Look  out  for  that  boggy  place,  somewhere 
here,"  Mr.  Austen  cautioned. 

"  It  is  a  perfect  night,"  Peggy  said  dreamily, 
as  she  stood  on  the  studio  steps,  waiting  for  her 
uncle  to  unlock  the  door. 

"  Yes." 

When  he  had  lighted  the  lamp,  he  called  to  her 
to  come  in. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said  presently,  going  over  to 
her,  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

She  had  dropped  into  the  big  chair  by  the 
fireplace.  He  stood  watching  her,  as  she  read; 
with  a  tightening  of  the  throat,  he  thought  how 
utterly  dear  and  desirable  she  looked,  there, 
under  the  soft  radiance  from  the  student- 
lamp.  .  .  . 

When  she  handed  the  letter  back  to  him,  she 
said: 


PEGGY-ELISE  309 

"  That  is  a  wonderful  letter  —  but  then,  they 
must  have  liked  your  book  very  much,  to  have 
taken  it  before  it  was  finished.  I  should  think 
that  would  make  you  happy  — " 

He  regarded  her  for  a  long  moment,  before 
speaking. 

"  Yes  —  but  I  wonder  —  if  you  can  understand 
the  kind  of  —  unhappiness  that  comes  from  fac- 
ing a  future  —  in  which  you  will  have  no  one  — 
with  whom  to  share  —  happiness;  no  one  who 
will  be  happy  just  because  you  are  happy,  and 
not  because  your  success  will  give  them  things 
they  want,  things  that  mean  happiness  to  them 

—  clothes,  luxuries —    Your  aunt  is  doing  her 
best,  doing  wonderfully,  but  already  she 's  plan- 
ning to  have  an  automobile,  if  my  book  makes 
any  money,  and  to  buy  a  fine  phonograph,  and  — 
Oh, —  it  'o  perfectly  right,  of  course,  and  natural, 
and  I  '11  be  only  too  happy  to  give  her  things,  but 

—  well —  do  you  understand  what  I  mean  — 
Peggy?" 

Their  eyes  met;  the  girl's  filled  with  pain,  at 
the  deep  yearning  in  his.  She  nodded  slowly. 

"  Of  course  you  do !  You  ' ve  always  under- 
stood everything  —  if  you  had  n't,  if  you  had  n't 
been  fine,  strong  —  all  through  —  the  family 
would  have  gone  to  smash,  by  now  —  Lord  knows 
what  would  have  happened  to  it!  When  you 
first  came  to  live  with  us,  you  know,  I  was  just 


310  PEGGY-ELISE 

ready  to  bolt !  I  don't  think  you  '11  ever  realize 
how  much  you  've  done  for  us  all,  one  way  or 
another  — ! " 

"  But  I  did  nothing  —  what  else  could  I  have 
done?  Sh.all  we  go  back,  now?  " 

"Go  back?  Yes  —  I  suppose  so.  .  .  ."  His 
brooding  eyes  searched  hers ;  she  felt  the  hunger 
in  them :  "  I  wish  we  might  go  on  —  go  on  — 
together  —  forever !  "  Then,  as  though  unable 
longer  to  command  himself,  he  abruptly  flung 
open  the  door.  He  did  not  even  look  at  her  as 
she  passed  him  and  went  out  into  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  not  until  Venable  had  been  in  France 
for  several  months,  that  he  quite  understood 
why  Peggy-Elise  had  wanted  him  "  to  want  to 
go.1'  He  had  felt  it  his  duty,  of  course,  but  at 
the  time  he  did  not  entirely  share  her  feelings  as 
to  the  ideals  which  should  actuate  him.  He  was 
not  indifferent;  there  were  grave  wrongs  to  be 
righted :  Belgium  should  be  restored,  France  re- 
gain Alsace-Lorraine,  England  be  supported  in 
her  championship  of  the  smaller  nations  —  yet 
none  of  these  things  drove  him  irresistibly  to  the 
front,  but  rather  a  desire  to  justify  himself  in 
Peggy-Elise's  eyes,  to  win  her  respect,  and,  inci- 
dentally, his  own. 

In  France,  a  new  spirit  gradually  began  to 
grow  within  him,  even  while  his  regiment  was 
still  in  training  far  behind  the  firing  line.  The 
phase,  in  which  he  had  thought  first,  of  himself, 
his  success  as  an  officer,  and  secondly,  of  the 
cause  in  which  he  was  enlisted,  had  given  way  to 
one  in  which  he  thought  of  the  success  of  Amer- 
ica, as  a  nation.  From  thinking  personally  he 
had  begun  to  think  nationally ;  in  the  third  phase, 

311 


312  PEGGY-ELISE 

he  thought  internationally,  concernedly,  of  man- 
kind. 

The  "  blue  devils"  assigned  to  the  work  of 
training  his  regiment  in  the  intricate  details  of 
modern  trench  warfare  told  many  stories,  calmly, 
without  excitement,  without  passion  —  stories 
that  caused  Venable  to  turn  cold  with  horror,  at 
first,  and  then  to  grit  his  teeth  in  somber  rage. 
He,  his  comrades,  would  show  the  world  what 
America  would  do !  Yet  these  men  did  not  speak 
of  shattered  villages,  maimed  and  murdered 
prisoners,  bestially  brutal  acts  of  lust,  outraged 
women  and  children,  as  things  done  by  the  enemy 
against  the  French,  but  as  evidences  of  a  mad  phi- 
losophy, a  horrible  thing  not  unlike  a  disease, 
that  was  creeping  slowly  forward,  threatening  to 
spread  its  venom  over  the  whole  face  of  the 
earth.  The  menace  was  a  menace  to  mankind; 
that  France  happened  to  be  in  its  path  was  inci- 
dental; her  sons  would  perish,  if  need  be,  that 
not  France,  alone,  but  the  world,  might  be  saved. 
Nor  was  this  curious,  impersonal  feeling  confined 
to  the  French !  He  met  soldiers  of  many  races, 
men  who  had  faced  death  in  inconceivably  hor- 
rible forms  —  who  knew  the  effects  of  poison 
gas,  of  liquid  fire,  from  personal  experience,  who 
had  been  patients  in  bombed  hospitals,  who  had 
gazed,  stupefied,  upon  obscenely  desecrated 
churches  —  in  all  these,  he  found  something  big- 


PEGGY-ELISE  313 

ger  than  personal  pride,  bigger  even  than  na- 
tional pride,  an  almost  religious  devotion  to  an 
ideal.  These  men,  who  went  into  battle  with 
flowers  in  their  caps  and  songs  upon  their  lips, 
who  suffered  so  silently,  and  died  so  simply  and 
nobly,  were  actuated,  sustained,  by  a  sublime 
purpose.  They  fought,  not  that  France  or  Eng- 
land or  Belgium  might  profit  by  it,  but  that  hu- 
manity might  profit  by  it,  that  generations  yet 
unborn  might  have  the  boon  of  peace,  of  security, 
that  they  themselves  were  denied.  It  was  a  won- 
derful thing,  this  tremendous  willingness  to  die 
for  others,  even  others  they  had  never  seen,  never 
would  see,  and  it  thrilled  Venable  as  nothing  in 
his  life  had  thrilled  him.  It  smacked  of  that 
universal  brotherhood  of  man,  that  dream  of  the 
Utopians,  now,  apparently,  something  more  than 
a  dream. 

"  Yes,''  one  English  Tommy  had  said,  "  we  '11 
'ave  to  stop  the  bloomin'  blighters  'ere,  or  wot 's 
the  use  of  'avin'  a  'ome  to  go  back  to?  " 

A  French  medical  officer  expressed  a  not  dis- 
similar thought. 

"It  is,  as  one  might  say,  a  cancerous  growth 
in  the  body  politic,  monsieur.  You,  I,  all  of  us 
—  we  are  like  the  white  corpuscles,  the  phago- 
cytes in  the  blood.  We  rush  to  the  infected 
point,  we  attack  the  poisonous  bacteria,  we  die. 
When  enough  of  us  have  died,  the  cancer  is  over- 


314  PEGGY-ELISE 

come,  and  civilization  is  saved.     That  is  all." 

Gradually  the  immensity  of  the  thing  began  to 
grow  upon  Venable.  There  was  a  Scotch  regi- 
ment billetted  near  by.  He  talked  with  the  men ; 
all  of  them  seemed  to  understand  quite  well  the 
thing  they  were  fighting  for,  although  none  of 
them  said  much  about  it.  One  old  top  sergeant, 
who  had  been  through  the  hell  at  Mons,  summed 
up  his  convictions  briefly,  but  to  the  point. 

"  A  mon  that  canna  see  the  richt  o'  it,  sir,"  he 
said,  "  wouldna  believe  in  God."  Venable  had 
not  thought  much  about  God  for  a  long  time. 

One  day,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  tiny  village,  he 
came  upon  an  elderly  priest,  who,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  a  girl  of  twelve,  was  trying  to  drive 
an  unruly  cow  into  the  stable.  Venable,  with  a 
smile,  went  to  their  aid,  and  he  and  the  old  man 
had  a  brief  talk. 

"  You  are  American,  yes?  "  the  cure  asked,  and 
seemed  pleased  when  Venable  replied  in  his  na- 
tive tongue.  "  The  good  God  Himself  has  sent 
you  to  help  us  — '  Follette  '  is  a  stubborn  animal. 
You  see,  monsieur,  we  must  do  our  best,  the  little 
Blanche  and  I,  since  the  young  men  have  other 
work  to  do,  God's  work,  monsieur."  He  smiled, 
very  sweetly  and  nobly,  his  face  for  the  moment 
transfigured.  "  Though  so  many  will  never  come 
back,  we  are  glad,  for  we  know  that  Christ  Him- 
self has  come  again  into  the  world,  not  in  the 


PEGGY-ELISE  315 

flesh,  as  He  came  before,  but  in  the  hearts  of 
men.  Through  this  so  terrible  war,  monsieur, 
love  will  come  to  rule  the  world.  I  am  old  —  I 
shall  not  see  it.  But  it  will  be  as  I  say."  He 
spoke  with  the  air  of  a  prophet.  Venable  went 
back  to  camp,  strangely  moved.  These  people, 
unquestionably,  looked  beyond  the  tragedy  of  the 
moment. 

That  night,  he  had  a  strange  new  mood  of 
prayer.  He  had  not  felt  so,  for  fifteen  years. 
"  Sell  all  that  thou  hast  .  .  .  and  follow  me," 
came  to  him  from  some  forgotten  teaching  of  the 
past.  Had  not  these  men,  these  mechanics, 
farmers,  shopkeepers,  artisans,  given  all  that 
they  possessed?  Were  they  not  giving  their 
lives?  For  his  children,  should  he  have  any,  his 
people,  no  less  than  for  their  own?  A  feeling  of 
shame  swept  over  him,  as  he  realized  how  trivial 
his  own  motives  had  been.  He  could  think  of  no 
adequate  words,  but  a  sense  of  gratitude  filled 
him,  that  he  was  able  to  do  his  part,  however 
small,  in  the  service  of  humanity.  He  saw 
clearly,  now,  for  the  first  time,  why  Peggy-Elise 
had  "  wanted  him  to  want "  to  come  to  France. 
In  spite  of  a  pricking  conscience,  he  had  felt  that 
there  were  other  men,  less  talented  men,  whose 
duty,  more  than  his,  lay  in  the  foul,  rat-infested 
trenches  —  selfishness,  purely,  as  she  had  so 
surely  known;  littleness,  that  held  him  earth- 


316  PEGGY-ELISE 

bound,  without  the  vision  to  see,  as  she  had  so 
surely  seen. 

It  hurt  him,  now,  to  realize  that  he  had  been 
even  a  little  irritated,  angry  with  her;  it  was 
because  of  this  feeling  that  he  had  not  gone  down 
from  camp  to  see  her,  until  the  day  of  her  sailing 
for  France.  They  had  lunched,  hurriedly,  at  a 
noisy  hotel,  and  talked  of  his  work  and  hers. 
Instinctively  Venable  felt  that  she  did  not  wish 
to  speak  of  their  love ;  it  was  not  until  they  said 
good-by,  at  the  gang-plank,  that  the  seething 
emotions  within  them  welled  to  the  surface. 
With  Peggy-Elise,  contrary  to  his  past  experi- 
ence, they  took  the  form  of  tears,  silent  tears, 
dimming  her  final  vision  of  him.  Venable  gave 
his  feelings  expression  —  it  was  characteristic  of 
him.  Not  to  kiss  her,  to  hold  her  in  his  arms, 
caused  him  acute  suffering.  He  assuaged  it,  mo- 
mentarily at  least,  by  drawing  her  to  him  and 
kissing  away  her  tears.  Perhaps  he  even  fancied 
that  he  was  consoling  her,  rather  than  himself. 

They  had  passed  each  other  in  midocean,  in 
the  early  autumn,  Venable  en  route  to  France, 
Peggy-Elise  hurrying  back  to  New  York  for  her 
season  at  the  Metropolitan.  Just  before  she 
sailed,  she  had  told  him,  in  a  letter,  that  she 
loved  him,  yet  it  did  not  entirely  satisfy  him, 
for  it  came  at  the  close  of  a  long  description  of 
her  activities  with  the  Red  Cross.  She  had  been 


PEGGY-ELISE  317 

singing,  in  the  hospitals  and  rest  camps.  Ven- 
able  had  had  a  feeling  of  jealousy,  at  the  time; 
Peggy-Elise,  he  had  felt,  loved  something  even 
more  than  she  loved  him.  Now,  at  last,  he  was 
beginning  to  understand  what  it  was. 

It  was  from  the  simple,  brave  faith  of  the  peo- 
ple about  him  that  he  learned  his  deepest  lessons. 
When  his  regiment,  with  others,  went  to  the 
front  line,  he  spent  much  of  his  spare  time  ( when 
his  company  was  not  on  duty  in  the  trenches), 
talking  with  the  old  woman  in  whose  house  he 
was  billetted.  The  village  was  a  scant  six  miles 
behind  the  front,  now;  during  the  storm  which 
swept  over  France  in  the  first  few  months  of  the 
war,  it  had  been  for  a  time  in  the  enemy's  hands. 
They  had  left  cruel  marks,  not  alone  on  stone 
and  timber  and  all  growing  things,  but  on  flesh 
and  blood  as  well  —  innocent,  harmless  flesh  and 
blood,  that  remained,  showing  the  pitiful  scars. 
The  old  woman,  Madame  Chiche,  fascinated  him. 
Her  face  held  a  fixed,  unalterable  look  of  terror. 
It  was  some  time  before  Venable  learned  the  ex- 
act reason  for  it;  she  seemed  indisposd  to  talk 
about  herself,  and  spoke  instead,  with  a  stern 
cheerfulness,  of  the  victory  that  was  to  be.  At 
last,  however,  she  told  him  the  story.  Her 
neighbor,  a  younger  woman,  had  a  daughter, 
Elise  was  her  name.  Venable  gave  a  start,  as 
he  heard  the  familiar  syllables,  and  a  picture  of 


318  PEGGY-ELISE 

his  Elise  flashed  through  his  brain.  Perhaps 
monsieur  had  seen  her,  Madame  Chichi  went  on 
—  the  tall  girl,  with  the  corn-colored  hair.  She 
was  seventeen  now,  and  of  a  beaute  extraordi- 
naire. When  the  war  came,  she  had  been  but 
fourteen,  a  child. 

Venable  had  seen  her.  A  flash  of  Madame 
Chich6's  terror  leaped  in  his  own  eyes. 

"  You  mean  the  —  the  girl  who  is  mad  ?  "  he 
asked,  almost  brutally.  He  had  seen  the  child 
in  the  village,  with  some  of  the  school  children. 
She  babbled  incessantly  of  meaningless  things; 
Venable  had  felt  a  profound  pity  for  her. 

"  But,  yes.  The  poor  one.  When  the  Ger- 
mans came  they  took  her.  It  was  here,  in  the 
street,  before  this  house.  Remember,  she  was 
but  fourteen.  There  were  ten  of  them  who 
shared  in  this  crime.  They  had  drunk  the  wine 
from  the  cellar  of  the  Maire.  They  were  as 
devils.  The  mother  they  forced  to  witness  what 
they  did.  She,  also,  went  mad,  and  ran  scream- 
ing to  the  river.  It  was  better  that  she  did  not 
live.  I,  also,  saw  this  thing.  At  the  moment,  I 
said  to  myself,  there  is  no  God.  But  I  know 
better,  now,  monsieur.  When  the  Germans  had 
gone,  I  brought  the  child  to  my  house.  Now 
Sister  Marie  cares  for  her,  at  the  ruins  of  the 
convent,  where  she  teaches  the  little  ones.  This 
war,  monsieur,  I  believe  it  is  a  scourge,  to  make 


PEGGY-ELISE  319 

us  think  of  others,  we  who  have  for  so  long 
thought  only  of  ourselves.  Punishment  —  that, 
monsieur,  is  in  the  hands  of  the  good  God.  He 
will  do  what  is  right.  For  us,  it  is  only  to  wait, 
and  help  those  who  have  suffered  more  than  we 
have.  But  this  I  will  say,  monsieur :  ,  The  burn- 
ing, the  destruction,  the  killing  of  our  men,  even 
of  our  women,  in  the  mad  rush  of  the  invasion,  I 
can  forgive,  even  I,  who  am  not  God;  but  that 
which  these  men  did  to  that  child,  that,  monsieur, 
I  cannot  forgive.  You  will  find,  when  you  have 
seen  more,  that  the  most  terrible,  the  most  un- 
forgivable thing  of  this  so  terrible  war,  has  been 
the  mad  passion,  the  lust  of  these  men.  Passion 
—  bah!"  She  spat  upon  the  ground.  "It 
comes  from  the  devil  himself!  " 

This  conversation  produced  upon  Venable  a 
profound  effect.  His  thoughts  reverted  to 
Peggy-Elise;  she  had  told  him  that  he  did  not 
understand  love.  Had  he,  through  all  these 
years,  confounded  it  with  passion?  His  own 
words  came  back  to  him  with  singular  vividness. 
He  had  prided  himself  upon  being  a  pagan.  "  I 
want  marriage  to  be  a  source  of  pleasure,  not  of 
annoyance."  His  pleasure.  Peggy  had  accused 
him  of  selfishness;  now  he  knew  that  she  had 
been  wiser  than  he.  Love  lay  in  giving,  not  in 
taking.  These  people  about  him,  understood. 
He  sought  out  the  afflicted  girl,  where  she  played 


320  PEGGY-ELISE 

with  the  other  children,  and  lavished  upon  her 
the  wealth  of  his  newly  awakened  love.  She 
gazed  at  him,  wide-eyed,  not  understanding. 
Her  mind  was  that  of  a  very  young  child;  she 
prattled  of  dolls,  and  the  things  of  infancy. 
Only  by  gifts  of  chocolate,  of  flowers,  could  he 
appeal  to  her;  yet,  in  the  end,  she  came  to  trust 
him.  At  times,  wild  spells  came  over  her;  she 
would  run  from. every  one,  even  from  the  other 
children,  and  going  to  the  ruined  chapel  of  the 
convent  would  climb  the  altar  steps  and  lie  there, 
weeping,  refusing  to  allow  any  one  to  approach 
her.  On  one  such  occasion,  Sister  Marie  ap- 
pealed to  him  for  help.  He  went  to  the  child 
and  spoke  to  her.  To  his  astonishment,  she 
crept  quietly,  pitifully,  into  his  arms  and  allowed 
him  to  carry  her  to  bed. 

It  was  through  this  girl,  who,  while  quite  un- 
like her,  reminded  him  so  poignantly  of  Peggy  - 
Elise,  and  through  the  other  children  —  little 
waifs  of  the  first  invasion,  for  the  most  part  — 
that  Venable  came  to  learn  his  final  lesson. 
These  eager  little  tots,  merry-eyed  in  spite  of 
the  tragedy  of  their  lives,  shy  as  elves  at  first, 
came  gradually  to  regard  him  as  a  big  brother. 
When  he  showed  them  some  American  games, 
told  them  stories  of  the  Indians,  and  deftly 
modeled  little  figures  for  them  out  of  clay,  they 
elected  him  one  of  them.  To  his  surprise,  he 


PEGGY-ELISE  321 

found  awakening  in  himself  a  paternal  feeling, 
a  love  for  children  that  had  hitherto  been  utterly 
foreign  to  him.  He  had  regarded  them,  in  the 
past,  as  disagreeable  little  annoyances,  to  be  se- 
cluded in  the  care  of  nurses.  The  thought  of 
being  a  father  had  left  him  cold;  that,  too,  had 
been  at  variance  with  the  ideas  of  Peggy-Elise. 
He  realized,  now,  that  it  had  been  but  another 
expression  of  his  selfishness.  She  had  been 
right.  One  had  to  give,  to  children ;  he  had  been 
unwilling  to  give,  of  his  time,  his  energy,  his 
comfort.  Now  he  began  to  grasp  the,  to  him, 
surprising  truth  that  in  giving,  as  he  was  giving, 
to  these  little  ones,  he  was  receiving  in  return 
more  than  he  gave.  For  his  chocolates,  his  pic- 
ture-books, the  small  labors  of  his  hands,  he  was 
being  repaid  a  thousandfold  in  affection,  in  sheer 
joy  at  seeing  others  made  happy. 

These  things  came  to  Venable  during  his 
periods  of  rest.  Throughout  the  days  and  nights 
in  the  trenches  he  was  the  eager,  intelligent,  effi- 
cient officer,  caring  with  unselfish  devotion  for 
the  comfort,  the  welfare  of  his  men;  they,  too, 
were  in  a  sense  children,  for  the  time  being  in 
his  care.  Yet  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  the  purest 
happiness  that  he  came  back  to  the  village,  and 
realized  how  sincere  was  the  joy  with  which  his 
little  friends  greeted  him.  "  The  big  monsieur," 
they  called  him,  with  inflexions  that  were  inex- 


322  PEGGY-ELISE 

pressibly  tender.  Peggy-Elise  had  thought  the 
creating  of  such  as  these  a  nobler  thing  than  even 
the  creating  of  a  Phryne,  a  Victory.  Perhaps  it 
was,  Venable  thought,  since  God,  the  master  art- 
ist, concerned  Himself  with  it,  had  even  con- 
cerned Himself  to  create  him. 

The  sector  upon  which  Venable's  regiment  was 
stationed  had  for  months  been  a  quiet  one. 
There  was  some  sniping,  some  daily  "  strafing  " 
—  enough  to  keep  either  side  aware  of  the  other's 
presence  —  but  nothing  remotely  approximating 
a  real  battle.  When  the  weather  was  bad,  the 
trenches  were  viciously  uncomfortable,  but  the 
men  made  the  best  of  them,  and  joked  light- 
heartedly  about  their  hardships.  Venable  had 
been  on  two  fair-sized  raids,  and  had  won  com- 
mendation for  his  able  handling  of  his  patrol,  in 
a  rather  tight  situation.  A  listening  post  had 
suddenly  been  attacked;  prisoners  had  been 
taken,  two  men  of  another  company,  surrender- 
ing only  when  their  ammunition  had  been  ex- 
hausted. The  force  of  the  enemy's  attack  not 
being  known,  the  patrol  had  been  recalled,  and 
a  heavy  barrage  placed  along  the  opposing 
trenches.  Venable  called  for  volunteers,  went 
through  the  curtain  of  fire,  and  returned  with 
the  two  prisoners  and  an  addditional  two  of  the 
enemy.  It  had  been  a  brave  enough  act ;  but  in 
a  conflict  in  which  cowardice,  not  bravery,  would 


PEGGY-ELISE  323 

be  a  matter  of  note,  he  had  neither  received  nor 
expected  more  than  the  handshake  of  his  bat- 
talion commander. 

When  the  storm  at  last  did  break,  it  was  Ven- 
able's  fortune,  or  misfortune,  to  be  at  rest  behind 
the  lines.  It  was  late  afternoon,  and  he  had  just 
left  his  quarters  and  was  going  toward  the  ruined 
convent  for  an  after-school  hour  with  the  chil- 
dren, when  an  orderly  dashed  up  with  the  news 
that  the  Germans  had  begun  to  deluge  the 
trenches  and  the  country  for  miles  back  of  them 
with  gas.  A  moment  later,  a  gas  shell  of  large 
caliber  exploded  some  hundred  yards  away, 
along  the  bank  of  the  river.  A  siren  whistle 
sounded  the  alarm.  It  was  the  first  use  of  gas 
on  this  sector,  so  far  behind  the  lines,  and  Ven- 
able  did  not  have  his  gas  mask  with  him.  He 
turned.  Already  the  few  people  in  the  streets 
were  hurrying  to  cover.  Then  he  glanced  toward 
the  convent,  in  one  wing  of  which,  still  intact, 
Sister  Marie  maintained  her  little  school.  His 
duty,  his  orders,  in  case  of  attack,  were  to  affix 
his  gas  mask  at  once;  to  get  it,  he  would  be 
obliged  to  retrace  his  steps  to  his  quarters.  He 
turned  swiftly,  then  hesitated,  stopped.  Would 
the  children  in  the  convent  be  safe?  Would 
Sister  Marie  know  what  to  do?  Would  the  un- 
familiar warning  be  understood?  A  shell,  with 
its  deadly  fumes,  bursting  in  or  near  the  school- 


324  PEGGY-ELISE 

room,  would  consign  those  eighteen  little  souls  to 
a  death  too  horrible  to  contemplate.  They  must 
seek  refuge  in  the  deep  stone  cellar  of  the  build- 
ing, at  once,  and  there,  with  moistened  handker- 
chiefs and  doors  sealed  with  wet  cloths,  wait  un- 
til masks  could  be  supplied  them.  He  hesitated 
no  longer,  as  a  shell  burst  not  fifty  yards  from 
the  building.  Clearly,  the  Germans  were  using 
its  shell-torn  tower  as  a  landmark  for  their  ar- 
tillery, in  their  effort  to  smother  the  village  and 
the  troops  they  knew  to  be  in  it. 

When  Venable  burst  open  the  door  of  the 
schoolroom,  he  found  the  children  huddled  in  a 
terrified  group  about  Sister  Marie.  She,  think- 
ing them  the  victim  of  an  air  raid,  had  gathered 
them  around  her,  waiting  for  the  storm  to  pass. 
Previous  experience  with  such  attacks  had  taught 
her  that  they  passed  quickly,  and  that  there  was 
less  safety,  in  the  streets,  than  beneath  the  heavy 
stone  roof  of  the  building  in  which  they  now 
were;  of  gas  she  suspected  nothing.  Venable, 
already  a  bit  faint  from  the  fumes  through  which 
he  had  been  obliged  to  pass,  in  order  to  reach  the 
door,  explained  the  matter  in  a  few  staccato 
words.  Sister  Marie  grasped  the  situation,  at 
once,  and  led  her  charges  through  a  wide  door- 
way to  the  hall,  from  which  access  could  be  had 
to  the  ancient  cellar.  On  the  way,  Venable 


PEGGY-ELISE  325 

snatched  from  the  desk  a  jar  of  water,  in  which 
there  were  some  flowers. 

"  Take  this  —  for  the  handkerchiefs !  "  he  or- 
dered, moistening  his  own  in  it  as  he  spoke. 
"  I  '11  get  a  bucket  from  the  yard  —  you  must  wet 
your  dresses  and  hang  them  over  the  door  until 
help  comes."  He  sprang  into  the  yard  and  re- 
turned almost  immediately  with  a  pail  of  water, 
from  which  the  children  were  in  the  habit  of 
drinking,  during  the  day.  They  had  all  gone 
into  the  cellar,  now.  Sister  Marie  stood  beside 
the  steep  stone  steps;  her  face  was  white,  ter- 
rified. 

"  Elise  has  run  into  the  chapel !  "  she  said.  "  I 
could  not  leave  the  others." 

Venable  thrust  the  bucket  of  water  into  her 
hands;  then  he  pointed  down  the  steps. 

"  Hurry !  I  '11  get  her !  "  he  cried.  His  voice 
was  drowned  in  the  roar  of  an  explosion,  close 
at  hand.  He  dashed  into  the  chapel. 

There  was  a  jagged  gap  in  its  high,  leaded 
roof.  A  great  blur  among  the  benches  showed 
where  the  projectile  had  fallen.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  the  deadly  fumes.  He  saw  Elise, 
a  huddled  white  mass,  at  the  foot  of  the  altar; 
heard  her  choking  cries.  Then  he  staggered  up 
the  aisle,  pressing  the  wet  handkerchief  to  his 
nostrils.  The  white  face  of  the  Christ,  upon  the 


326  PEGGY-ELISE 

great  crucifix  over  the  altar,  looked  down  pity- 
ingly through  the  slowly  mounting  vapors. 

Venable  put  his  arms  about  the  terrified 
child.  She  lay  quite  silent,  seeming  to  find  com- 
fort in  his  nearness.  The  gas  fumes,  heavy, 
deadly,  acrid,  rolled  over  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Venable  took  the  wet  handkerchief  and  bound  it 
tightly  over  the  girl's  nostrils  and  mouth,  telling 
her  as  he  did  so  that  she  must  not  attempt  to 
tear  it  away.  Then  he  picked  her  up,  and,  hold- 
ing his  breath,  groped  down  the  aisle  and  through 
the  schoolroom  to  the  open  air.  His  lungs 
seemed  on  fire,  his  eyes  burnt  like  coals.  A  mo- 
mentary vision  of  goggled  figures  in  khaki  rose 
before  his  eyes,  then  he  collapsed  upon  the  grass. 

Peggy-Elise  came  back  to  her  work,  a  little  ap- 
prehensive, if  the  truth  is  to  be  told.  Her  suc- 
cess of  the  previous  season  seemed  like  a  dream. 
She  was  singularly  lacking  in  confidence;  she 
needed  Giles  Winthrop  to  encourage  her,  as  he 
had  from  the  beginning.  But  Giles  Winthrop 
was  gone  —  and  would  not  come  back. 

She  went  to  the  opera  house,  the  night  she  was 
to  make  her  d6but  in  "  Lucia  di  Lammermoor," 
horribly  depressed,  her  nerves  jumping;  she  felt 
that  nothing  but  failure  awaited  her  in  this  her 
first  coloratura  role.  Her  triumph,  that  night, 
created  a  furore  in  musical  circles. 


PEGGY-ELISE  327 

She  found  herself  suddenly  the  rage;  she  was 
photographed,  interviewed,  written  up  in  the 
women's  magazines,  invited  everywhere.  With 
it  all,  she  continued  to  live  in  her  little  room  in 
Patchin  Place  —  she  had  never  been  able  to  leave 
it,  because  of  the  memories  of  Venable  with 
which  it  was  crowded.  That  she  made  her  home 
in  such  humble  quarters  was  laid  to  eccentricity. 
People  went  down  to  Greenwich  Village  in  the 
hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  her.  But  her  popu- 
larity meant  little  to  her,  without  the  people  she 
loved. 

Paolo  Breschi  was  more  enamoured  of  her  than 
ever.  He  implored  her  to  come  and  live  with 
him. 

"  It  will  do  you  good !  "  he  urged.  "  Dio!  It 
is  not  natural  at  your  age  —  at  any  age  —  to  live 
without  love!  There  is  nothing  else  in  life! 
And,"  he  added  naively,  "I  am  a  very  good 
lover." 

Peggy  smiled  sadly  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Come  and  try  it,  anyway  —  until  we  are 
tired,  yes?" 

She  had  to  laugh,  then;  he  was  so  gorgeously 
frank.  She  had  a  kind  of  affection  for  him,  and 
a  certain  respect.  He  had  no  conception  of  con- 
ventional morality,  she  knew;  he  was,  in  fact, 
gaily  unmoral.  He  had  his  own  Panlike  code 
of  right  and  wrong;  it  would  be  wrong,  for  in- 


328  PEGGY-ELISE 

stance,  not  to  use  the  senses  you  had  been  given 
—  not  to  taste  the  last  drop  of  pleasure  they 
could  bring  you!  That  was  what  they  were 
meant  for  —  what  else?  Peggy  admired  his  sin- 
cerity, while  seeing,  clearly,  through  his  sophis- 
try. 

All  through  that  bitter  winter  and  spring  she 
thought  of  only  three  things ;  they  were  her  sing- 
ing, her  relief  work,  and  Venable.  She  forced 
herself  to  think  of  Venable  least,  in  order  that 
she  might  retain  the  necessary  courage  to  go  on 
at  all.  A  ceaseless,  surging  desire  to  go  to  him, 
to  be  near  him,  never  left  her;  she  tried  to  for- 
get it  in  the  manifold  activities  with  which  she 
crowded  her  life ;  but  the  focal  point  in  each  day 
was  the  poignant  moment  in  which  she  read  the 
casualty  lists  from  France. 

It  was  in  early  March  that  the  impending  ter- 
ror of  all  those  months  became  a  reality,  and 
when  the  concrete  fact  finally  forced  itself  upon 
her  unwilling  mind,  she  sat  gazing  at  the  line  of 
type,  quite  dry-eyed.  "  Captain  Gilbert  Venable, 
of  New  York,"  she  read,  in  the  list  of  wounded. 
That  was  all.  She  sat  still  for  a  long  time,  with 
a  feeling  of  helplessness  that  presently  became 
maddening.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  that 
Venable  needed  her.  Always,  before,  he  had 
only  wanted  her.  Some  maternal  instinct,  deep- 
rooted,  caused  her  to  stretch  out  her  arms;  she 


PEGGY-ELISE  329 

could  have  taken  him  in  them  as  she  might  have 
taken  a  child. 

There  was  nothing  she  could  do,  it  seemed,  but 
wait.  She  could  not  go  to  him ;  if  for  no  other 
reason,  her  opera  contract,  her  war  work,  held 
her  fast.  Also,  she  knew  the  insurmountable 
difficulties  that  would  be  placed  in  her  way ;  were 
all  the  tortured  women  on  this  side  to  rush  to 
their  men,  the  capacity  of  the  transports  would 
have  been  taxed.  She  must  suffer  and  wait,  as 
the  other  women  suffered  and  waited,  hoping  for 
the  letter  she  felt  sure  he  would  write,  or  have 
written,  as  soon  as  his  condition  permitted  it. 
A  cablegram  she  did  send,  to  Bosquet,  but  the 
days  passed  and  no  reply  came.  After  that,  she 
walked  through  life  dazed,  numb,  sustained  by 
the  knowledge  that  as  soon  as  he  could  be  moved, 
he  would  be  sent  back  to  America  for  treatment. 
The  possibility  that  he  might  not  come  back  at 
all  she  refused  to  admit,  even  to  herself,  although 
it  stalked  like  a  grim  shadow,  forever  at  her  side. 

It  was  on  a  tender  afternoon,  toward  the  end 
of  April,  that  the  tension  finally  snapped.  Com- 
ing wearily  from  a  long  rehearsal,  her  body  tired, 
her  brain  preternaturally  acute,  she  mounted  the 
steps  to  the  little  studio  in  Patchin  Place,  dread- 
ing the  long  hours  that  lay  between  her  and  the 
coming  day.  Thoughts  of  her  former  meeting 
with  Venable,  here  on  these  narrow  stairs,  swept 


330  PEGGY-ELISE 

over  her  with  a  startling  sense  of  reality ;  it  was 
as  though  he  stood  at  her  side ;  the  air  about  her 
throbbed  with  his  presence,  with  an  almost  terri- 
fying sense  of  his  nearness.  A  chill  of  fear  sud- 
denly curdled  the  blood  in  her  veins,  her  hands 
were  like  ice ;  had  he  come  back  to  her  —  there 
—  in  spirit?  Was  he  —  was  he — ?  She  had 
scarcely  strength  enough  to  open  her  door. 

A  figure  stood  near  the  window.  All  the  bits 
of  color  in  the  room,  the  green  jar  on  the  mantel, 
the  blue  and  gold  of  a  strip  of  Chinese  em- 
broidery, the  diapered  sunlight  on  the  table-top, 
whirled  about  in  a  fantastic  blur,  like  some  mon- 
strous firework.  Then  in  a  moment,  everything 
became  rigid,  clarified. 

"  Peggy-Elise,"  she  heard  Venable  saying,  in  a 
weak,  uncertain  voice,  "  Peggy-Elise." 

He  came  toward  her.  Her  heart  contracted  as 
she  saw  his  wasted  face  and  hands,  the  look  of 
suffering  in  his  eyes,  but  beyond  all  this,  she  saw 
something  more  —  the  something  more  for  which 
she  had  waited  —  longed. 

"Mon  ame!"  she  breathed.  With  a  look  of 
perfect  trust,  she  laid  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

He  gazed  down  into  her  rapt  eyes.  Suddenly, 
the  old  whimsical  smile  slowly  twitched  up  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  now,  Peggy-Elise?  "  he 
asked  weakly. 

She  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him. 

THE   END 


000  037  077     5 


